THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


HYPERION 


A    ROMANCE 


BY 

HENRY     WADSWORTH     LONGFELLOW 


"  Who  ne'er  his  bread  in  sorrow  ate. 
Who  ne'er  the  mournful,  midnight  hours, 
Weeping  upon  his  bed  has  sate. 
He  knows  you  not,  ye  lleavenly  Powers." 


NEW   YORK 
JOHN   W.   LOVELL  COMPANY 

150  WORTH  STUEET,  CORNER  MISSION  PLACE 


College 
Library 


BOOK   I. 

UlfAPTHl 

I.  THEHEEO 7 

II.  THE  CHRIST  OF  ANDERNACH 11 

III.  HOMUNCULUS 19 

IV.  THE  LANDLADY'S  DAUGHTER 24 

V.  JEAN  PAUL,  THE  ONLY-ONE 28 

VI.  HEIDELBERG  AND  THE  BARON 36 

VII.  LIVES  OF  SCHOLARS 43 

VTII.  LITERARY  I'AME  . .                                      53 


BOOK  II. 

I.  SPRING 68 

II.    A  COLLOQUY 66 

III.  OWL-TOWERS 70 

IV.  A  BEER-SCANDAL 77 

V.  THE  WHITE  LADY'S  SLIPPER  AND  THE  PASSION-FLOWER.  .  86 

VI.  GLIMPSES  INTO  CLOUD-LAND 90 

VII.  MILL- WHEELS  AND  OTHER  WHEELS 103 

VIII.  OLD  HUMBUG : Ill 

IX.  THE  DAYLIGHT  OF  THE  DWARFS,  AND  THE  FALLING  STAR.  117 

X.  THEPARTING 127 

3 


1157311 


4  CONTENTS. 

BOOK    III. 
CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  SUMMER-TIME 135 

II.  FOOT-TEA  YELLING 140 

III.  INTERLACHEN 147 

IV.  THE  EVENING  AND  THE  MORNING  STAR 155 

V.  A  RAINY  DAY 160 

VI.  AFTER  DINNER,  AND  AFTER  THE  MANNER  OF  THE  BEST 

CRITICS 173 

VII.  TAKE  CARE 182 

ITIII.  THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  OBLIVION 187 

IX.  A  TALK  ON  THE  STAIRS.  . ,  196 


BOOK   IV. 

I.  A  MISERERE 203 

II.  CURFEW  BELLS 208 

III.  SHADOWS  ON  THE  WALL 217 

IV.  MUSICAL  SUFFERINGS  OF  JOHN  KREISLER 227 

V.  SAINT  GILGEN 235 

VI.  SAINT  WOLFGANG 241 

VII.  THE  STORY  OF  BROTHER  BERNARDUS 251 

nil.  FOOTPRINTS  OF  ANGELS 260 

EL  THE  LAST  PANG.  . ,  .967 


HYPERION. 


A  KOMANCE. 

"Look  not  mournfully  Into  the  Past.  It  cr-ncs  not  back  again.  WIs«lj 
improve  the  Present.  It  is  thine.  Go  forth  to  meet  tlie  shadowy  Future  witk 
out  fear,  and  with  a  manly  heart." 


CHAPTEK  I. 

THE   HEEO. 

IN  John  Lyly's  "  Endymion,"  Sir  Topas  is  made  to 
say  :  "  Dost  thou  know  what  a  poet  is  ?  Why,  fool, 
a  poet  is  as  much  as  one  should  say, — a  poet  ! "  And 
thou,  reader,  dost  thou  know  what  a  hero  is  ?  Why,  a 
hero  is  as  much  as  one  should  say, — a  hero  !  Some 
romance-writers,  however,  say  much  more  than  this. 
Nay,  the  old  Lombard,  Matteo  Maria  Bojardo,  set  all  the 


8 

cho«  A-b?lls  in  Scandiano  ringing,  merely  because  nt  nau 
four!  a  name  for  one  of  his  heroes.  Here,  also,  snail 
church-bells  be  rung,  but  more  solemnly. 

The  setting  of  a  great  hope  is  like  the  setting  of  the 
sun.  The  brightness  of  our  life  is  gone.  Shadows  of 
evening  fall  around  us,  and  the  world  seems  but  a  dim  re 
flection, — itself  a  broader  shadow.  We  look  forward  into 
the  coming  lonely  night.  The  soul  withdraws  into  itself. 
Then  stars  arise,  and  the  night  is  holy. 

Paul  Flemming  had  experienced  this,  though  still 
young.  The  friend  of  his  youth  was  dead.  The  bough 
had  broken  "under  the  burden  of  the  unripe  fruit."  And 
when,  after  a  season,  he  looked  up  again  from  the  blind 
ness  of  his  sorrow,  all  things  seemed  unreal.  Like  the 
man  whose  sight  had  been  restored  by  miracle,  he  beheld 
men,  as  trees,  walking.  His  household  gods  were  broken. 
He  had  no  home.  His  sympathies  cried  aloud  from  his 
desolate  soul,  and  there  came  no  answer  from  the  busy, 
turbulent  world  around  him.  He  did  rfot  willingly  give 
way  to  grief.  He  struggled  to  be  cheerful, — to  be  strong. 
Put  he  could  no  longer  look  into  the  familiar  faces  of  his 
friends.  He  could  no  longer  live  alone,  where  he  had 
lived  with  her.  He  went  abroad,  that  the  sea  might  be 
'between  him  and  the  grave.  Alas  !  between  him  and  his 
sorrow  there  could  be  no  sea,  but  that  of  time.  He  had 
already  passed  many  months  in  lonely  wandering,  and 
was  now  pursuing  his  way  along  the  Ehine,  to  the  South 
of  Germany.  He  had  journeyed  the  same  way  before, 
in  brighter  days  and  a  brighter  season  of  the  year,  in  the 
May  of  life  and  in  the  month  of  May.  He  knew  the 
beauteous  river  all  by  heart ; — every  rock  and  ruin,  every 
echo,  every  legend.  The  ancient  castles,  grim  and  hoar, 
that  had  taken  root  as  it  were  on  the  cliffs, — they  were 


A  ROMANCE.  9 

all  his ;  for  his  thoughts  dwelt  in  them,  and  the  wind 
told  him  tales. 

He  had  passed  a  sleepless  night  at  Rolandseck,  and  had 
risen  before  daybreak.  He  opened  the  window  of  the 
balcony  to  hear  the  rushing  of  the  Ehine.  It  was  a 
clamp  December  morning  ;  the  clouds  were  passing  over 
the  sky, — thin,  vapory  clouds,  whose  snow-white  skirts 
were  "  of  ten  spotted  with  golden  tears,  which  men  call 
stars."  The  day  dawned  slowly  ;  and,  in  the  mingling 
of  daylight  and  starlight,  the  island  and  cloister  of  Non- 
nenwerth  made  together  but  one  broad,  dark  shadow 
on  the  silver  breast  of  the  river.  Beyond,  rose  the  sum 
mits  of  the  Seibengebirg.  Solemn  and  dark,  like  a  monk, 
stood  the  Drachenfels,  in  his  hood  of  mist ;  and  rearward 
extended  the  Curtain  of  Mountains,  back  to  the  Wolken- 
burg,— the  Castle  of  Clouds. 

But  Flemming  thought  not  of  the  scene  before  him. 
•Sorrow  unspeakable  was  upon  his  spirit  in  that  lonely 
nour ;  and,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands,  he  exclaimed 
aloud : 

"  Spirit  of  the  past  !  Look  not  so  mournfully  at  me 
with  thy  great  tearful  eyes  !  Touch  me  not  with  thy 
cold  hand  !  Breathe  not  upon  me  with  the  icy  breath  of 
the  grave  !  Chant  no  more  that  dirge  of  sorrow,  through 
the  long  and  silent  watches  of  the  night ! " 

Mournful  voices  from  afar  seemed  to  answer,  "Treuen- 
fels  !  "  ard  he  remembered  how  others  had  suffered,  and 
his  heart .  jrew  still. 

Slowly  the  landscape  brightened.  Down  the  rushing 
stream  came  a  boat,  with  its  white  wings  spread,  and 
darted  like  a  swallow  through  the  narrow  pass  of  God's- 
Help.  The  boatmen  were  singing, — but  not  the  song  of 
Roland  the  Brave,  which  was  heard  of  old  by  the  weeping 


10  HYPERION. 

Hildegund,  as  she  sat  within  the  walls  of  the  cloister 
which  now  looked  forth  in  the  pale  morning  from  amid 
the  lifeless  linden-trees.  The  dim  traditions  of  those 
gray  old  times  rose  in  the  traveller's  memory ;  for  the 
ruined  tower  of  Eolandseck  was  still  looking  down  upon* 
the  Kloster  Nonneiiwerth,  as  if  the  sound  of  the  funeral 
bell  had  changed  the  faithful  Paladin  to  stone  and  he 
were  watching  still  to  see  the  form  of  his  beloved  one 
come  forth,  not  from  her  cloister,  but  from  her  grave. 
Thus  the  brazen  clasps  of  the  book  of  legends  were 
opened,  and,  on  the  page  illuminated  by  the  misty  rays  of 
the  rising  sun,  he  read  again  the  tales  of  Liba,  and  the 
mournful  bride  of  Argenfels,  and  Siegfried,  the  mighty 
eiayer  of  the  dragon.  Meanwhile  the  mists  have  risen 
from  the  Ehine,  and  the  whole  air  was  filled  with  golden 
vapor,  through  which  he  beheld  the  sun,  hanging  in 
heaven  like  a  drop  of  bloed.  Even  thus  shone  the  sun 
within  him,  amid  the  wintry  vapors  uprising  from  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  through  which  flowed  the 
stream  of  his  life, — sighing,  sighing  1 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   CHKIST   OF   A^DEKNACH. 

PAcTL  FLEMMING  resumed  his  solitary  journey. 
The  morning  was  still  misty,  but  not  cold.  Acrosa 
the  Rhine  the  sun  came  wading  through  the  reddish 
vapors  ;  and  soft  and  silver-white  outspread  the  broad 
river,  without  a  ripple  upon  its  surface,  or  visible  motion 
of  the  ever-moving  current.  A  little  vessel,  with  one 
loose  sail,  was  riding  at  anchor,  keel  to  keel  with  another 
that  lay  right  under  it,  its  own  apparition, — and  all  was 
silent,  and  calm,  and  beautiful. 

The  road  was  for  the  most  part  solitary  ;  for  there  are 
few  travellers  upon  the  Rhine  in  winter.  Peasant-women 
were  at  work  in  the  vineyards,  climbing  up  the  slippery 
hill-sides,  like  beasts  of  burden,  with  large  baskets  of 
manure  upon  their  backs.  And  once  during  the  morn 
ing  a  band  of  apprentices,  with  knapsacks  passed  by, 
singing,  "  The  Rhine  !  the  Rhine  !  a  blessing  on  the 
Rhine  ! " 

0,  the  pride  of  the  German  neart  in  this  noble  river ! 
And  right  it  is ;  for,  of  all  the  rivers  of  this  beautiful 
earth,  there  is  none  so  beautiful  as  this.  There  is  hardly 
a  league  of  its  whole  course,  from  its  cradle  in  the  snowy 
Alps  to  its  grave  in  the  sands  of  Holland,  which  boasts 
not  its  peculiar  charms.  By  heavens  !  If  I  were  a  Ger 
man,  I  would  be  proud  of  it  too ;  and  of  the  clustering 
grapes  that  hang  about  its  temples,  as  it  reels  onward 

11 


12  HYPERION, 

through  vineyards  in  a  triumphal  march,  like  Bacchus 
crowned  and  drunken. 

But  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  Rhine ;  it  would 
make  this  chapter  much  too  long.  And  to  do  it  well,  one 
should  write  like  a  god ;  and  his  style  flow  onward  royally 
with  breaks  and  dashes,  like  the  waters  of  that  royal  river, 
and  antique,  quaint,  and  Gothic  times  be  reflected  in  it. 
Alas  !  this  evening  my  style  flows  not  at  all.  Flow,  then, 
into  this  smoke-colored  goblet,  thou  blood  of  the  Rhine  ! 
out  of  thy  prison-house, — out  of  thy  long-necked,  taper 
ing  flask,  in  shape  not  unlike  a  church-spire  among  thy 
native  hills ;  and  from  the  crystal  belfry  loud  ring  the 
merry  tinkling  bells,  while  I  drink  a  health  to  my  hero, 
in  whose  heart  is  sadness,  and  in  whose  ears  the  bells  of 
Andernach  are  ringing  noon. 

He  is  threading  his  way  alone  through  a  narrow  alley, 
and  now  up  a  flight  of  stone  steps,  and  along  the  city 
wall,  towards  that  old  round  tower  built  by  the  Arch 
bishop  Frederick  of  Cologne  in  the  twelfth  century.  It 
has  a  romantic  interest  in  his  eyes ;  for  he  has  still  in  his 
mind  and  heart  that  beautiful  sketch  of  Carove,  in  which 
is  described  a  day  on  the  tower  of  Andernach.  He  finds 
the  old  keeper  and  his  wife  still  there ;  and  the  old 
keeper  closes  the  door  behind  him  slowly  as  of  old,  lest 
he  should  jam  too  hard  the  poor  souls  in  Purgatory, 
whose  fate  it  is  to  suffer  in  the  cracks  of  doors  and  hinges. 
But,  alas !  alas !  the  daughter,  the  maiden  with  long, 
dark  eyelashes !  she  is  asleep  in  her  little  grave,  under 
the  linden-trees  of  Feldkirche,  with  rosemary  in  her 
folded  hands ! 

Flemming  returned  to  the  hotel  disappointed.  As  he 
passed  along  the  narrow  streets,  he  was  dreaming  of 
many  things ;  but  mostly  of  the  keeper's  daughter,  asleep 


A  ROMANCE.  13 

in  the  churchyard  of  Feldkirche.  Suddenly,  o".  turning 
the  corner  of  an  ancient,  gloomy  church,  his  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  little  chapel  in  an  angle  of  th(  wall.  It 
was  only  a  small  thatched  roof,  like  a  bird's  ne^t ;  under 
which  stood  a  rude  wooden  image  of  the  Saviour  on  the 
Cross.  A  real  crown  of  thorns  was  upon  his  herd,  which 
was  bowed  downward,  as  if  in  the  death  agcny;  and 
drops  of  blood  were  falling  down  his  cheeks,  and  from 
his  hands  and  feet  and  side.  The  face  was  haggard  and 
ghastly  beyond  expression,  and  Avore  a  look  of  unutter 
able  bodily  anguish.  The  rude  sculptor  had  given  it 
this,  but  his  art  could  go  no  further.  The  sublimity 
of  death  in  a  dying  Saviour,  the  expiring  God-likeness 
of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  was  not  there.  The  arti't  had 
caught  no  heavenly  inspiration  from  his  theme,  All 
was  coarse,  harsh,  and  revolting  to  a  sensitive  mind ; 
and  Flcmming  turned  away  with  a  shudder,  as  he  saw 
this  fearful  image  gazing  at  him,  with  its  fixed  and  half- 
shut  eyes. 

He  soon  reached  the  hotel,  but  that  face  of  agony 
still  haunted  him.  He  could  not  refrain  from  speaking 
of  it  to  a  very  old  woman,  who  sat  knitting  by  the  win 
dow  of  the  dining-room,  in  a  high-backed,  old-fashioned 
arm-chair.  I  believe  she  was  the  inn-keeper's  grand 
mother.  At  all  events,  she  was  old  enough  to  be  so.  Sho 
took  off  her  owl-eyed  spectacles,  and  as  she  wiped  the 
glasses  with  her  handkerchief,  said  : 

"  Thou  dear  Heaven  !  Is  it  possible  ?  Did  you  never 
hear  of  the  Christ  of  Andernach  ?  " 

Flemming  answered  in  the  negative. 

"  Thou  dear  Heaven  ! "  continued  the  old  woman.  "  It 
is  a  very  wonderful  story ;  and  a  true  one,  as  every  good 
Christian  in  Andernach  will  tell  you.  And  it  all  hap- 


14  HYPERION, 

pened  before  the  death  of  my  blessed  man  four  years  ago  i 
let  me  see, — yes,  four  years  ago,  come  Christmas." 

Here  the  old  woman  stopped  talking,  but  went  on  with 
her  knitting.  Other  thoughts  seemed  to  occupy  her 
mind.  She  was  thinking,  no  doubt,  of  her  blessed  man, 
as  German  widows  call  their  dead  husbands.  But  Flem- 
ming  having  expressed  an  ardent  wish  to  hear  the  wonder 
ful  story,  she  told  it  in  nearly  the  following  words  : 

"  There  was  once  a  poor  old  woman  in  Andernach 
whose  name  was  Frau  Martha,  and  she  lived  all  alone  in  a 
house  by  herself,  and  loved  all  the  saints  and  the  blessed 
Virgin,  and  was  as  good  as  an  angel,  and  sold  pies  down 
by  the  Eheinkrahn.  But  her  house  was  very  old,  and  the 
roof-tiles  were  broken,  and  she  was  too  poor  to  get  new 
ones,  and  the  rain  kept  coming  in,  and  no  Christian  soul 
in  Andernach  would  help  her.  But  the  Frau  Martha 
was  a  good  woman,  and  never  did  anybody  any  harm,  but 
went  to  mass  every  morning,  and  sold  pies  by  the  Ehein 
krahn.  Now  one  dark,  windy  night,  when  all  the  good 
Christians  in  Andernach  were  abed  and  asleep  in  the 
feathers,  Frau  Martha,  who  slept  under  the  roof,  heard 
a  great  noise  over  her  head,  and  in  her  chamber,  drip ! 
drip  !  drip  !  as  if  the  rain  were  dropping  down  through 
the  broken  tiles.  Dear  soul !  and,  sure  enough,  it  was. 
And  then  there  was  a  pounding  and  hammering  over 
head,  as  if  somebody  were  at  work  on  the  roof  ;  and  she 
thought  it  was  Pelz-Nickel  tearing  the  tiles  off,  because 
she  had  not  been  to  confession  often  enough.  So  she  be 
gan  to  pray  ;  and  the  faster  she  said  her  Pater-noster  and 
her  Ave-Maria,  the  faster  Pelz-Nickel  pounded  and  pulled  •, 
and  drip  !  drip  !  drip  !  it  went  all  round  her  in  the  dark 
chamber,  till  the  poor  woman  was  frightened  out  of  her 
wits,  and  ran  to  che  window  to  call  for  help.  Then  in  a 


4  ROMANCE.  15 

moment  all  was  still, — death-still.  But  she  saw  a  light 
streaming  through  thd  mist  and  rain,  and  a  great  shadow 
on  the  house  opposito.  And  then  somebody  came  down 
from  the  top  of  her  lionise  by  a  ladder,  and  had  a  lantern 
in  his  hand  ;  and  he  took  the  ladder  on  his  shoulder  and 
went  down  the  street.  But  she  could  not  see  clearly,  be 
cause  the  window  was  streaked  with  rain.  And  in  the 
morning  the  old  broken  tiles  were  found  scattered  about 
the  street,  and  there  were  new  ones  on  the  roof,  and  the 
old  house  has  never  leaked  to  this  blessed  day. 

"  As  soon  as  mass  was  over,  Frau  Martha  told  the  priest 
what  had  happened,  and  he  said  it  was  not  Pelz-Nickel, 
but,  without  doubt,  St.  Castor  or  St.  Florian.  Then  she 
went  to  the  market  and  told  Frau  Bridget  all  about  it ; 
and  Frau  Bridget  said,  that,  two  nights  before,  Hans 
Glaus,  the  cooper,  had  heard  a  great  pounding  in  his 
shop,  and  in  the  morning  found  new  hoops  on  all  his  old 
hogsheads  ;  and  that  a  man  with  a  lantern  and  a  ladder 
had  been  seen  riding  out  of  town  at  midnight  on  a  don 
key  ;  and  that  the  same  night  the  old  windmill,  at  Kloster 
St.  Thomas,  had  been  mended  up,  and  the  old  gate  of  the 
churchyard  at  Feldkirche  made  as  good  as  new,  though 
nobody  knew  how  the  man  got  across  the  river.  Then 
Frau  Martha  went  down  to  the  Eheinkrahn  and  told  all 
these  stories  over  again  ;  and  the  old  ferryman  of  Fahr 
said  he  could  tell  something  about  it ;  for,  the  very  night 
that  the  churchyard-gate  was  mended,  he  was  lying  awake 
in  his  bed,  because  he  could  not  sleep,  and  he  heard  a 
loud  knocking  at  the  door,  and  somebody  calling  to  him 
to  get  up  and  set  him  over  the  river.  And  when  he  got 
ip,  he  saw  a  man  down  by  the  river  with  a  lantern  and  a 
'adder  ;  but  as  he  was  going  down  to  him,  the  man  blew 
)ut  the  light,  and  it  was  so  dark  he  could  not  see  who  he 


16 

was ;  and  his  boat  was  old  and  leaky,  and  he  was  afraid 
to  set  him  over  in  the  dark  ;  but  the  man  said  he  must 
be  in  Andernach  that  night ;  and  so  he  set  him  over. 
And  after  they  had  crossed  the  river,  he  watched  the 
man,  till  he  came  to  an  image  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  and 
saw  him  put  the  ladder  against  the  wall,  and  go  up  and 
light  his  lamp,  and  then  walk  along  the  street.  And  in 
the  morning  he  found  his  old  boat  all  caulked,  and  tight, 
and  painted  red,  and  he  conld  not  for  his  blessed  life  tell 
who  did  it,  unless  it  were  the  man  with  the  lantern. 
Dear  soul !  how  strange  it  was  ! 

"  And  so  it  went  on  for  some  time  ;  and  whenever  the 
man  with  the  lantern  had  been  seen  walking  through  the 
street  at  night,  so  sure  as  the  morning  came,  some  work 
had  been  done  for  the  sake  of  some  good  soul  ;  and  every 
body  knew  he  did  it ;  and  yet  nobody  could  find  out  who 
he  was,  nor  where  he  lived  ; — for,  whenever  they  came  near 
him,  he  blew  out  his  light,  and  turned  down  another 
street,  and,  if  they  followed  him,  he  suddenly  disap 
peared,  nobody  could  tell  how.  And  some  said  it  was 
Riibezahl ;  and  some,  Pelz-Nickel ;  and  some,  St.  An- 
thony-on-the-Heath. 

"  Now  one  stormy  night,  a  poor,  sinful  creature  was 
wandering  about  the  streets,  with  her  babe  in  her  arms, 
and  she  was  hungry,  and  cold,  and  no  soul  in  Andernach 
would  take  her  in.  And  when  she  came  to  the  church, 
where  the  great  crucifix  stands,  she  saw  no  light  in  the 
little  chapel  at  the  corner ;  but  she  sat  down  on  a  stone 
at  the  foot  of  the  cross  and  began  to  pray,  and  prayed  till 
she  fell  asleep,  with  her  poor  little  babe  on  her  bosom. 
But  she  did  not  sleep  long  ;  for  a  bright  light  shone  full 
in  her  face  ;  and  when  she  opened  her  eyes,  she  saw  a  pale 
man,  with  a  lantern,  standing  right  before  her.  He  was 


A  ROMANCE.  17 

almost  naked  ;  and  there  was  blood  upon  his  hands  and 
body,  and  great  tears  in  his  beautiful  eyes,  and  his  face 
was  like  the  face  of  the  Saviour  on  the  cross.  Not  a  sin 
gle  word  did  lie  say  to  the  poor  woman ;  but  looked  at 
her  compassionately.,  and  gave  her  a  loaf  of  bread,  and 
took  the  little  babe  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  it.  Then  the 
mother  looked  up  to  the  great  crucifix,  but  there  was  no 
image  there  ;  and  she  shrieked  and  fell  down  as  if  she  were 
dead.  And  there  she  was  found  with  her  child;  and  a  few 
days  after,  they  both  died,  and  were  buried  together  in  the 
one  grave.  And  nobody  would  have  believed  her  story,  if 
a  woman,  who  lived  at  the  corner,  had  not  gone  to  the 
window  when  she  heard  the  scream,  and  seen  the  figure 
hang  the  lantern  up  in  its  place,  and  then  set  the  ladder 
against  the  wall,  and  go  up  and  nail  itself  to  the  cross.  Since 
that  night  it  has  never  moved  again.  Ach  !  Herr  Je  ! " 

Such  was  the  legend  of  the  Christ  of  Andernach,  as 
the  old  woman  in  spectacles  told  it  to  Flemming.  It 
made  a  painful  impression  on  his  sick  and  morbid  soul  ; 
and  he  felt  now  for  the  first  time  in  full  force,  how  great 
is  the  power  of  popular  superstition. 

The  post-chaise  was  now  at  the  door,  Flemming  was 
soon  on  the  road  to  Coblentz,  a  city  which  stands  upon 
the  Ehine,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Mosel,  opposite  Ehren- 
breitstein.  It  is  by  no  means  a  long  drive  from  Ander 
nach  to  Coblentz  ;  and  the  only  incident  which  occurred 
to  enliven  the  way  was  the  appearance  of  a  fat,  red-faced 
man  on  horseback,  trotting  slowly  towards  Andernach. 
As  they  met,  the  mad  little  postilion  gave  him  a  friendly 
cut  with  his  whip,  and  broke  out  into  an  exclamation, 
which  showed  he  was  from  Miinster  : — 

"  Jesmariosp  !  my  friend  1    How  is  the  Man  in  the 
Custom-House  ?  " 
2 


18  BYPEKION. 

Now  to  any  candid  mind  this  would  seem  a  fair  ques 
tion  enough ;  but  not  so  thought  the  red-faced  man  on 
horseback  ;  for  he  waxed  exceedingly  angry,  and  replied, 
as  the  chaise  whirled  by  :  — 

"  The  devil  take  you,  and  your  Westphalian  ham,  and 
pumpernickel !  " 

Flemming  called  to  his  servant,  and  the  servant  to  the 
postilion,  for  an  explanation  of  this  short  dialogue  ;  and 
the  explanation  was,  that  on  the  belfry  of  the  Kaufhaus 
in  Coblentz  is  a  huge  head  with  a  brazen  helmet  and  a 
beard  ;  and  whenever  the  clock  strikes,  at  each  stroke 
of  the  hammer,  this  giant's  head  opens  its  great  jaws  and 
smites  its  teeth  together,  as  if,  like  the  brazen  head  of 
Friar  Bacon,  it  would  say,  "  Time  was  ;  Time  is  ;  Time 
is  past."  This  figure  is  known  through  all  the  country 
round  about  as  "  The  Man  in  the  Custom-House  "  ;  and 
when  a  friend  in  the  country  meets  a  friend  from  Cob 
lentz,  instead  of  saying,  "  How  are  all  the  good  people  in 
Coblentz  ?  " — he  says,  "  How  is  the  Man  in  the  Custom- 
House  ?  "  Thus  the  giant  has  a  great  part  to  play  in  the 
town.  And  thus  ended  the  first  day  of  Flemming's 
Rhine- journey  ;  and  the  only  good  deed  he  had  done  was 
to  give  an  alms  to  a  poor  beggar  woman,  who  lifted  up 
her  trembling  hands  and  exclaimed  : — 

"Thou  blessed  babe  1" 


CHAPTER 

HOMUNCTJLTJS. 

A  FTER  all,  a  Journey  up  the  Rhino,  in  the  mists  ah$ 
-£A-  solitude  of  December,  is  not  so  unpleasant  as  the 
reader  may  perhaps  imagine.  You  have  the  whole  road 
and  river  to  yourself.  Nobody  is  on  the  wing  ;  hardly  a 
single  traveller.  The  ruins  are  the  same  ;  and  the  river, 
and  the  outlines  of  the  hills  ;  and  there  are  few  living 
figures  in  the  landscape  to  wake  you  from  your  musings, 
distract  your  thoughts,  and  cover  you  with  dust. 

Thus  likewise  thought  our  traveller,  as  he  continued 
his  journey  on  the  morrow.  The  day  is  overcast  and  the 
clouds  threaten  rain  or  snow.  Why  does  he  stop  at  the 
little  village  of  Capellen  ?  Because,  right  above  him  on 
the  high  cliff,  the  glorious  ruin  of  Stolzenfels  is  looking 
at  him  with  its  hollow  eyes,  and  beckoning  to  him  with 
its  gigantic  finger,  as  if  to  say,  "  Come  up  hither,  and  I 
will  tell  thee  an  old  tale."  Therefore  he  alights,  and  goes 
up  the  narrow  village  lane,  and  up  the  stone  steps,  and  up 
the  steep  pathway,  and  throws  himself  into  the  arms  of 
that  ancient  ruin,  and  holds  his  breath,  to  hear  the  quick 
footsteps  of  the  falling  snow,  like  the  footsteps  of  angels 
3escending  upon  earth.  And  that  ancient  ruin  speaks 
to  him  with  its  hollow  voice,  and  says  : — 

"  Beware  of  dreams  !  Beware  of  the  illusions  of  fancy  I 
Beware  of  the  solemn  deceivings  of  thy  vast  desires  ! 
Beneath  me  flows  the  Rhine,  and,  like  the  stream  of 


20  HYPERION, 

Time,  it  flows  amid  the  ruins  of  the  Past.  I  see  myself 
therein,  and  I  know  that  I  am  old.  Thou,  too,  shalt  be 
old.  Be  wise  in  season.  Like  the  stream  of  thy  life 
runs  the  stream  beneath  us.  Down  from  the  distant 
Alps,— out  into  the  wide  world,  it  bursts  away,  like  a 
youth  from  the  house  of  his  fathers.  Broad-breasted  and 
strong,  and  with  earnest  endeavors,  like  manhood,  it 
makes  itself  a  way  through  these  difficult  mountain- 
passes.  And  at  length,  in  its  old  age,  it  stops,  and  its 
steps  are  weary  and  slow,  and  it  sinks  into  the  sand,  and, 
through  its  grave,  passes  into  the  great  ocean,  which  is 
its  eternity.  Thus  shall  it  be  with  thec. 

"  In  ancient  times,  there  dwelt  within  these  halls  a 
follower  of  Jesus  of  Jerusalem,— an  Archbishop  in  the 
Church  of  Christ.  He  gave  himself  up  to  dreams  ;  to 
the  illusions  of  fancy  ;  to  the  vast  desires  of  the  human 
soul.  He  sought  after  the  impossible.  He  sought  after 
the  Elixir  of  Life, — the  Philosopher's  Stone.  The  wealth 
that  should  have  fed  the  poor  was  melted  in  his  cruci 
bles.  Within  these  walls  the  Eagle  of  the  clouds  sucked 
the  blood  of  the  Ked  Lion,  and  received  the  spiritual 
love  of  the  Green  Dragon  ;  but,  alas  !  was  childless.  In 
solitude  and  utter  silence  did  the  disciple  of  the  Her 
metic  Philosophy  toil  from  day  to  day,  from  night  to 
night.  From  the  place  where  thou  standest  he  gazed  at 
evening  upon  hills,  and  vales,  and  waters  spread  beneath 
him  ;  and  saw  how  the  setting  sun  had  changed  them  all 
to  gold,  by  an  alchemy  more  cunning  than  his  own.  He 
eaw  the  world  beneath  his  feet ;  and  said  in  his  heart, 
that  he  alone  was  wise.  Alas  !  he  read  more  willingly  in 
the  book  of  Paracelsus  than  in  the  book  of  Nature  ;  and, 
believing  that  *  where  reason  hath  experience,  faith  hath 
no  mind,'  would  fain  have  made  unto  himself  a  child, 


A  ROMANCE.  aj 

not  as  Nature  teaches  us,  but  as  the  Philosopher  taught, 
— a  poor  homunculus,  in  a  glass  bottle.  And  he  died 
poor  and  childless  ! " 

Whether  it  were  worth  while  to  climb  the  Stolzenfela 
to  hear  such  a  homily  as  this,  some  persons  may  perhaps 
doubt.  But  Paul  Flemming  doubted  not.  He  laid  the 
lesson  to  heart ;  and  it  would  have  saved  him  many  an 
hour  of  sorrow,  if  he  had  learned  that  lesson  better,  and 
remembered  it  longer. 

In  ancient  times,  there  stood  in  the  citadel  of  Athena 
three  statues  of  Minerva.  The  first  was  of  olive-wood, 
and,  according  to  popular  tradition,  had  fallen  from 
heaven.  The  second  was  of  bronze,  commemorating  the 
victory  of  Marathon  ;  and  the  third  of  gold  and  ivory, — 
a  great  miracle  of  art,  in  the  age  of  Pericles.  And  thus 
in  the  citadel  of  Time  stands  Man  himself.  In  child 
hood,  shaped  of  soft  and  delicate  wood,  just  fallen  from 
heaven  ;  in  manhood,  a  statue  of  bronze,  commemorating 
struggle  and  victory  ;  and,  lastly,  in  the  maturity  of  age, 
perfectly  shaped  in  gold  and  ivory, — a  miracle  of  art ! 

Flemming  had  already  lived  through  the  olive  age. 
He  was  passing  into  the  age  of  bronze,  into  his  early 
manhood  ;  and  in  his  hands  the  flowers  of  Paradise  were 
changing  to  the  sword  and  shield. 

And  this  reminds  me  that  I  have  not  yet  described  my 
hero.  I  will  do  it  now,  as  he  stands  looking  down  on  the 
glorious  landscape  ; — but  in  few  words.  Both  in  person 
and  character  he  resembled  Harold  the  Fair-Hair  of  Nor 
way,  who  is  described,  in  the  old  Icelandic  Death-Song  of 
Regner  Hairy-Breeches,  as  "  the  young  chief  so  proud  of 
his  flowing  locks  ;  he  who  spent  his  mornings  among  the 
young  maidens  ;  he  who  loved  to  converse  with  the  hand 
some  widows."  This  was  an  amiable  weakness ;  and  it 


22  HYPERION, 

sometimes  led  him  into  mischief.  Imagination  was  th« 
ruling  power  of  his  mind.  His  thoughts  were  twin- 
oorn  ;  the  thought  itself,  and  its  figurative  semblance  in 
the  outer  world.  Thus,  through  the  quiet,  still  waters 
of  his  soul  each  image  floated  double,  "  swan  and  shadow." 

These  traits  of  character,  a  good  heart,  and  a  poetic 
imagination,  made  his  life  joyous  and  the  world  beauti 
ful  ;  till  at  length  Death  cut  down  the  sweet  blue  flower 
that  bloomed  beside  him,  and  wounded  him  with  that 
sharp  sickle,  so  that  he  bowed  his  head,  and  would  fain 
have  been  bound  up  in  the  same  sheaf  with  the  sweet  blue 
flower.  Then  the  world  seemed  to  him  less  beautiful, 
and  life  became  earnest.  It  would  have  been  well,  if  he 
could  have  forgotten  the  past ;  that  he  might  not  so 
jnournfully  have  lived  in  it,  but  might  have  enjoyed  and 
improved  the  present.  But  this  his  heart  refused  to  do  ; 
and  ever,  as  he  floated  upon  the  great  sea  of  life,  he 
looked  down  through  the  transparent  waters,  checkered 
with  sunshine  and  shade,  into  the  vast  chambers  of  the 
mighty  deep  in  which  his  happier  days  had  sunk,  and 
wherein  they  were  lying  still  visible,  like  golden  sands, 
and  precious  stones,  and  pearls ;  and,  half  in  despab, 
half  in  hope,  he  grasped  downward  after  them  again,  an<i 
drew  back  his  hand,  filled  only  with  sea-weed,  and  drip* 
ping  with  briny  tears  !  And  between  him  and  those 
golden  sands  a  radiant  image  floated,  like  the  spirit  in 
Dante's  Paradise,  singing,  "Ave  Maria!"  and  while  it 
sang,  down-sinking,  and  slowly  vanishing  away. 

The  truth  is  that  in  all  things  he  acted  more  from 
impulse  than  from  fixed  principle  ;  as  is  the  case  with 
most  young  men.  Indeed,  his  principles  hardly  had 
time  to  take  root ;  for  he  pulled  them  all  up,  every 
now  and  then,  as  children  do  the  flowers  they  have 


A  ROMANCE.  23 

planted, — to  see  if  they  are  growing.  Yet  there  was 
much  in  him  which  was  good  ;  for  underneath  the  flow 
ers  and  grecnsAvard  of  poetry,  and  the  good  principles 
which  would  have  taken  root  had  he  given  them  time, 
there  lay  a  strong  and  healthy  soil  of  common  sense, — 
freshened  by  living  springs  of  feeling,  and  enriched  by 
many  faded  hopes,  that  had  fallen  upon  it  like  dead  leavea 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  LANDLADY'S  DAUGHTEB. 

**  A  LLEZ,  Fuchs  !  allez,  lustig  ! "  cried  the  impatient 
-£jL  postilion  to  his  horses,  in  accents  which,  like  the 
Wild  echo  of  the  Lurley  Felsen,  came  first  from  one  side 
of  the  river  and  then  from  the  other, — that  is  to  say,  in 
words  alternately  French  and  German.  The  truth  is,  he 
was  tired  of  waiting ;  and  when  Flemming  had  at 
length  resumed  his  seat  in  the  post-chaise,  the  poor 
horses  had  to  make  up  the  time  he  lost  in  dreams  on 
the  mountain.  This  is  far  oftener  the  case  than  most 
people  imagine.  One  half  of  the  world  has  to  sweat  and 
groan,  that  the  other  half  may  dream.  It  would  have 
been  a  difficult  task  for  the  traveller  or  his  postilion 
to  persuade  the  horses  that  these  dreams  were  all  for  their 
good. 

The  next  stopping-place  was  the  little  tavern  of  the 
Star,  an  out-of-the-way  corner  in  the  town  of  Salzig.  It 
stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  ;  and,  directly  in  front 
of  it,  sheer  from  the  water's  edge,  rise  the  mountains 
of  Liebenstein  and  Sternenf  els,  each  with  its  ruined  castle. 
These  are  the  Brothers  oi  the  old  tradition,  still  gazing 
at  each  other  face  to  face  ;  and  beneath  them,  in  the  val 
ley,  stands  a  cloister, — meet  emblem  of  that  orphan  child 
they  both  so  passionately  loved. 

In  a  small  flat-bottomed  boat  did  the  landlady's  daugh 
ter  row  Flemming  "  over  the  Rhine-stream,  rapid  and 
24 


A  ROMANCE.  25 

roaring  wide."  She  was  a  beautiful  girl  of  sixteen  ;  with 
black  hair,  and  dark,  lovely  eyes,  and  a  face  that  had  a 
story  to  tell.  How  different  faces  are  in  this  particular  ! 
Some  of  them  speak  not.  They  are  books  in  which  not 
a  line  is  written,  save  perhaps  a  date.  Others  arc  grcai 
Family  Bibles,  with  all  the  Old  and  the  New  Testament 
written  in  them.  Others  are  Mother  Goose  and  nursery 
tales  ;  others,  bad  tragedies,  or  pickle-herring  farces  ;  and 
others,  like  that  of  the  landlady's  daughter  at  the  Star, 
sweet  love-anthologies,  and  songs  of  the  affections.  It 
was  on  that  account  that  Flemming  said  to  her,  as  they 
glided  out  into  the  swift  stream, — 

"  My  dear  child  I  do  you  know  the  story  of  the  Lieben- 
stein  ?'" 

"  The  story  of  the  Liebenstein,"  she  answered,  "  I  got 
by  heart  when  I  was  a  little  child." 

And  here  her  large,  dark,  passionate  eyes  looked  into 
Flemming's,  and  he  doubted  not  that  she  had  learned  the 
story  far  too  soon  and  far  too  well.  That  story  he  longed 
to  hear,  as  if  it  were  unknown  to  him  ;  for  he  knew  that 
the  girl,  who  had  got  it  by  heart  when  a  child,  would  tell 
it  as  it  should  be  told.  So  he  begged  her  to  repeat  the 
story,  which  she  was  but  too  glad  to  do  ;  for  she  loved 
and  believed  it,  as  if  it  had  all  been  written  in  the  Bible. 
But  before  she  began,  she  rested  a  moment  on  her  oars, 
and,  taking  the  crucifix  which  hung  suspended  from  her 
neck,  kissed  it,  and  then  let  it  sink  down  into  her  bosom, 
as  if  it  were  an  anchor  she  was  letting  down  into  her 
heart.  Meanwhile  her  moist,  dark  eyes  were  turned  to 
heaven.  Perhaps  her  soul  was  walking  with  the  souls  of 
Cunizza,  and  Eahab,  and  Mary  Magdalen.  Or  perhaps  she 
was  thinking  of  that  nun,  of  Avhon?  St.  Gregory  says,  in  his 
Dialogues,  that,  having  greedily  eaten  a  lettuce  in  a  gar« 


26  HYPERION, 

den  without  making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  she  found  her 
self  soon  after  possessed  with  a  devil. 

The  probability,  however,  is,  that  she  was  looking  at 
the  ruined  castles  only,  and  not  to  heaven,  for  she  soon  be- 
gan  her  story,  and  told  Flemming  how,  a  great,  great  many 
years  ago,  an  old  man  lived  in  the  Liebenstein  with  his  two 
sons  ;  and  how  both  the  young  men  loved  the  Lady  Geral- 
dine,  an  orphan,  under  their  father's  care  ;  and  how  the 
elder  brother  went  away  in  despair,  and  the  younger  was 
betrothed  to  the  Lady  Geraldine  ;  and  how  they  were  as 
happy  as  Aschenputtel  and  the  Prince.  And  then  the 
holy  Saint  Bernard  came  and  carried  away  all  the  young 
men  to  the  war,  just  as  Napoleon  die1  afterwards  ;  and  the 
young  lord  went  to  the  Holy  Land,  and  the  Lady  Geral 
dine  sat  in  her  tower  and  wept,  and  waited  f  o.r  her  lover's 
return,  while  the  old  father  built  the  Sternenf els  for  them 
to  live  in  when  they  were  married.  And  when  if-  was 
finished,  the  old  man  died  ;  and  the  elder  brother  came 
back  and  lived  in  the  Liebenstein,  and  took  care  of  the 
gentle  lady.  Erelong  there  came  news  from  the  Holy 
Land  that  the  war  was  over ;  and  the  heart  of  the  gen 
tle  lady  beat  with  joy,  till  she  heard  that  her  faithless 
lover  was  coming  back  with  a  Greek  wife, — the  wicked 
man  ! — and  then  she  went  into  a  convent  and  became 
a  holy  nun.  So  the  young  lord  of  Sternenfels  came  home, 
and  lived  in  his  castle  in  great  splendor  with  the  Greek 
woman,  who  was  a  wicked  woman,  and  did  what  she 
ought  not  to  do,  But  the  elder  brother  was  angry  for 
the  wrong  done  the  gentle  lady,  and  challenged  the  lord 
of  Sternenfels  to  single  combat.  And  while  they  were 
fighting  with  their  great  swords  in  the  valley  of  Bornhof  en 
behind  the  castle,  the  convent  bells  began  to  ring,  and 
the  Lady  Geraldine  came  forth  with  a  train  of  nuns,  all 


A  ROMANCE.  27 

Crossed  in  white,  and  made  the  brothers  friends  again, 
and  told  them  she  was  the  bride  of  Heaven,  and  happier 
in  her  convent  than  she  could  have  been  in  the  Lieben- 
stein  or  the  Sternenfels.  And  when  the  brothers  returned 
they  found  that  the  false  Greek  wife  had  gone  away 
with  another  knight.  So  they  lived  together  in  peace, 
and  were  never  married.  And  when  they  died " 

"  Lisbeth  !  Lisbeth  ! "  cried  a  sharp  voice  from  the 
shore,  "  Lisbeth  !  where  are  you  taking  the  gentleman  ?" 

This  recalled  the  poor  girl  to  her  senses  ;  and  she  saw 
how  fast  they  were  floating  down  stream.  For,  in  telling 
the  story,  she  had  forgotten  everything  else,  and  the 
swift  current  had  swept  them  down  to  the  tall  walnut-trees 
of  Kamp.  They  landed  in  front  of  the  Capuchin  Mon 
astery.  Lisbeth  led  the  way  throrgh  the  little  village, 
and,  turning  to  the  right,  pointed  up  the  romantic, 
lonely  valley  which  leads  to  the  Liebenstein,  and  even 
offered  to  go  up.  But  Flemming  patted  her  cheek,  and 
shook  Ids  head.  He  went  up  the  valley  alore. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

JEAN  PAUL,    THE  ONLY-ONE. 

THE  man  in  the  play  who  wished  for  "  some  forty 
pounds  of  lovely  beef,  placed  in  a  Mediterranean 
Sea  of  brewis,"  might  have  seen  his  ample  desires  almost 
realized  at  the  table  d'hote  of  the  Eheinischen  Hof,  in 
Mayence,  where  Flemming  dined  that  day.  At  the  head 
of  the  table  sat  a  gentleman  with  a  smooth,  broad  fore 
head,  and  large,  intelligent  eyes.  He  was  from  Baireuth 
in  Franconia  ;  and  talked  about  poetry  and  Jean  Paul  to 
a  pale,  romantic-looking  lady  on  his  right.  There  was 
music  all  dinner-time  at  the  other  end  cf  the  hall, — a 
harp  and  a  horn  and  a  voice, —  so  that  a  great  part  of 
the  fat  gentleman's  conversation  with  the  pale  lady  was 
lost  to  Flemming,  who  sat  opposite  to  her,  and  could  look 
right  into  her  large,  melancholy  eyes.  But  what  he 
heard  so  much  interested  him, — indeed,  the  very  name 
of  the  beloved  Jean  Paul  would  have  been  enough  for 
this, — that  he  ventured  to  join  in  the  conversation,  and 
asked  the  German  if  had  known  the  poet  personally. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him  well,"  replied  the  stranger.  "  I 
am  a  native  of  Baireuth,  where  he  passed  the  best  years 
of  his  life.  In  my  mind,  the  man  and  the  author  are 
closely  united.  I  never  read  a  page  of  his  writings  with 
out  hearing  his  voice,  and  seeing  his  form  before  me. 
There  he  sits,  with  his  majestic,  mountainous  forehead, 
his  mild  blue  eyes,  and  finely  cut  nose  and  mouth ;  his 
38 


A  ROMANCE.  29 

massive  frame  clad  loosely  and  carelessly  in  an  old  green 
frock,  from  the  pockets  of  which  the  corners  of  books 
project,  and  perhaps  the  end  of  a  loaf  of  bread  and  the 
nose  of  a  bottle ;  a  straw  hat,  lined  with  green,  lying 
near  him ;  a  huge  walking-stick  in  his  hand,  and  at  his 
feet  a  white  poodle,  with  pink  eyes,  and  a  string  round 
his  neck.  You  would  sooner  have  taken  him  for  a  mas 
ter-carpenter  than  for  a  poet.  Is  he  a  favorite  author  of 
yours  ?  " 

Flemming  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  But  a  foreigner  must  find  it  exceedingly  difficult  to 
understand  him,"  said  the  gentleman.  "It  is  by  no 
means  an  easy  task  for  us  Germans." 

"  I  have  always  observed,"  replied  Flemming,  "  that 
the  true  understanding  and  appreciation  of  a  poet  depend 
more  upon  individual  than  upon  national  character.  If 
there  be  a  sympathy  betAveen  the  minds  of  writer  and 
reader,  the  bounds  and  barriers  of  a  foreign  tongue  are 
soon  overleaped.  If  you  once  understand  an  author's 
character,  the  comprehension  of  his  writings  becomes 
easy." 

"Very true,"  replied  the  German  ;  "  and  the  character 
of  Eichter  is  too  marked  to  be  easily  misunderstood.  Its 
prominent  traits  are  tenderness  and  manliness, — qualities 
which  are  seldom  found  united  in  so  high  a  degree  as  in 
him.  Over  all  he  sees,  over  all  he  writes,  are  spread  the 
sunbeams  of  a  cheerful  spirit, — the  light  of  inexhaustible 
human  love.  Every  sound  of  human  joy  and  of  human 
sorrow  finds  a  deep-resounding  echo  in  his  bosom.  In 
every  man,  he  loves  his  humanity  only,  not  his  superi 
ority.  The  avowed  object  of  all  his  literary  labors  was 
to  raise  up  again  the  down-sunken  faith  in  God,  virtue, 
and  immortality  ;  and  in  an  egotistical,  revolutionary 


30  HYPERION, 

age,  to  warm  again  our  human  sympathies,  which  have 
now  grown  cold.  And  not  less  boundless  is  his  love  for 
nature, — for  this  outward,  beautiful  world.  He  embraces 
it  all  in  his  arms." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Flemming,  almost  taking  the  words 
out  of  the  stranger's  mouth,  "for  in  his  mind  all  things 
become  idealized.  He  seems  to  describe  himself  when  ho 
describes  the  hero  of  his  Titan,  as  a  child,  rocking  in  a 
high  wind  upon  the  branches  of  a  full-blossomed  apple- 
tree,  and  as  its  summit,  blown  abroad  by  the  wind,  now 
sunk  him  in  deep  green,  and  now  tossed  him  aloft  in 
deep  blue  and  glancing  sunshine, — in  his  imagination 
stood  that  tree  gigantic  ; — it  grew  alone  in  the  universe, 
as  if  it  were  the  tree  of  eternal  life  ;  its  roots  struck  down 
into  the  abyss  ;  the  white  and  red  clouds  hung  as  blos 
soms  upon  it ;  the  moon  as  fruit ;  the  little  stars  sparkled 
like  dewvand  Albano  reposed  in  its  measureless  summit ; 
and  a  storm  swayed  the  summit  out  of  Day  into  Night, 
and  out  of  Night  into  Day." 

"Yet  the  spirit  of  love,"  interrupted  the  Franconian, 
"  was  not  weakness,  but  strength.  It  was  united  in  him 
with  great  manliness.  The  sword  of  his  spirit  had  been 
forged  and  beaten  by  poverty.  Its  temper  had  been  tried 
by  a  thirty  years'  war.  It  was  not  broken,  not  even 
blunted,  but  rather  strengthened  and  sharpened,  by  the 
blows  it  gave  and  received.  And,  possessing  this  noble 
spirit  of  humanity,  endurance,  and  self-denial,  he  made 
literature  his  profession  ;  as  if  he  had  been  divinely  com 
missioned  to  write.  He  seems  to  have  cared  for  noth 
ing  else,  to  have  thought  of  nothing  else,  than  living 
quietly  and  making  books.  He  says  that  he  felt  it  his  duty, 
not  to  enjoy,  nor  to  acquire,  but  to  write  ;  and  boasted 
that  he  had  made  as  many  books  as  he  had  lived  years." 


A  ROMANCE.  31 

"  And  what  do  you  Germans  consider  the  prominent 
characteristics  of  his  genius  ?  " 

"  Most  undoubtedly,  his  wild  imagination  and  his  play 
fulness.  He  throws  over  all  things  a  strange  and  magio 
coloring.  You  are  startled  at  the  boldness  and  beauty  of 
iiis  figures  and  illustrations,  which  are  scattered  every 
where  with  a  reckless  prodigality;  multitudinous,  like 
the  blossoms  of  early  summer,  and  as  fragrant  and  beau 
tiful.  With  a  thousand  extravagances  are  mingled  ten 
thousand  beauties  of  thought  and  expression,  which  kin 
dle  the  reader's  imagination,  and  lead  it  onward  in  a 
bold  flight,  through  the  glow  of  sunrise  and  sunset,  and 
the  dewy  coldness  and  starlight  of  summer  nights.  He 
is  difficult  to  understand, — intricate, — strange, — drawing 
his  illustrations  from  every  by-corner  of  science,  art,  and 
nature, — a  comet  omong  the  bright  stars  of  German  lite 
rature.  When  you  read  his  works,  it  is  as  if  you  were 
climbing  a  high  mountain,  in  merry  company,  to  see  the 
sun  rise.  At  times  you  are  'enveloped  in  mist, — the 
morning  wind  sweeps  by  you  with  a  shout, — you  hear  the 
far-off  muttering  thunders.  Wide  beneath  you  spreads  the 
landscape, — field,  meadow,  town,  and  winding  river.  The 
ringing  of  distant  church-bells,  or  the  sound  of  solemn 
village  clock  reaches  you ; — then  arises  the  sweet  and 
manifold  fragrance  of  flowers, — the  birds  begin  to  sing, 
—the  vapors  roll  away, — up  comes  the  glorious  sun, — 
you  revel  like  the  lark  in  the  sunshine  and  bright  blue 
heaven,  and  all  is  a  delirious  dream  of  soul  and  sense, — 
when  suddenly  a  friend  at  your  elbow  laughs  aloud,  and 
offers  you  a  piece  of  Bologna  sausage.  As  in  real  life,  so 
in  his  writings ;  the  serious  and  the  comic,  the  sublime 
and  the  grotesque,  the  pathetic  and  the  ludicrous,  are 
mingled  together.  At  times  he  is  sententious,  energetic, 


33  HYPERION, 

simple  ;  then,  again,  obscure  and  diffuse.  His  thoughts 
are  like  mummies  embalmed  in  spices,  and  wrapped 
about  with  curious  envelopments ;  but  within  these  the 
thoughts  themselves  are  kings.  At  times  glad,  beautiful 
images,  airy  forms,  move  by  you,  graceful,  harmonious ; 
— at  times,  the  glaring,  wild-looking  fancies,  chained  to 
gether  by  hyphens,  brackets,  and  dashes,  brave  and  base, 
high  and  low,  all  in  their  motley  dresses,  go  sweeping 
down  the  dusty  page,  like  the  galley-slaves  that  sweep  the 
streets  of  Rome,  where  you  may  chance  to  see  the  noble 
man  and  the  peasant  manacled  together." 

Flemming  smiled  at  the  German's  warmth,  to  which 
the  presence  of  the  lady  and  the  Laubenheimer  wine 
seemed  each  to  have  contributed  something,  and  then 
said  : — 

"  Better  an  outlaw  than  not  free  ! — These  are  his  own 
words.  And  thus  he  changes  at  his  will.  Like  the  God 
Thor,  of  the  old  Northern  mythology,  he  now  holds  forth 
the  seven  bright  stars  in  the  bright  heaven  above  us,  and 
now  hides  himself  in  clouds,  and  pounds  away  with  his 
great  hammer." 

"  And  yet  this  is  not  affectation  in  him,"  rejoined  the 
German.  "  It  is  his  nature, — it  is  Jean  Paul.  And  the 
figures  and  ornaments  of  his  style,  wild,  fantastic,  and 
ofttimes  startling,  like  those  in  Gothic  cathedrals,  are  not 
merely  what  they  seem,  but  massive  coignes  and  but 
tresses  which  support  the  fabric.  Remove  them,  and  the 
roof  and  walls  fall  in.  And  through  these  gargoyles, 
these  wild  faces,  carved  upon  spouts  and  gutters,  flow 
out,  like  gathered  rain,  the  bright,  abundant  thoughts 
that  have  fallen  from  heaven.  And  all  he  does  is  done 
with  a  kind  of  serious  playfulness.  He  is  a  sea-monster, 
disporting  himself  on  the  broad  ocean  ;  his  very  sport  is 


A  ROMANCE.  33 

aarnest ;  there  is  something  majestic  and  serious  about  it 
In  everything  there  is  strength,  a  rough  good-nature,  all 
sunshine  overhead,  and  underneath  the  heavy  moaning 
of  the  sea.  Well  may  he  be  called  '  Jean  Paul,  the  Only- 
One.'" 

With  such  discourse  the  hour  of  dinner  passed  ;  and 
after  dinner  Flemming  went  to  the  Cathedral.  They  were 
singing  vespers.  A  beadle,  dressed  in  blue,  with  a 
cocked  hat,  and  a  crimson  sash  and  collar,  was  strutting, 
like  a  turkey,  along  the  aisles.  This  important  gentle 
man  conducted  Flemming  through  the  church,  and 
showed  him  the  choir,  with  its  heavy-sculptured  stalls  of 
oak,  and  the  beautiful  figures  in  brown  stone  over  the 
bishops'  tombs.  He  then  led  him,  by  a  side-door,  into 
the  old  and  ruined  cloisters  of  St.  Willigis.  Through 
the  low  Gothic  arches  the  sunshine  streamed  upon  the 
pavement  of  tombstones,  whose  images  and  inscriptions 
are  mostly  effaced  by  the  footsteps  of  many  generations. 
There  stands  the  tomb  of  Frauenlob,  the  Minnesinger. 
His  face  is  sculptured  on  an  entablature  in  the  wall ;  a 
fine,  strongly-marked,  and  serious  countenance.  Below 
it  is  a  bas-relief,  representing  the  poet's  funeral.  He  is 
carried  to  his  grave  by  ladies,  whose  praise  he  sang,  and 
thereby  won  the  name  of  Frauenlob. 

"This,  then,"  said  Flemming,  "is  the  grave,  not  of 
Praise-God  Bare-bones,  but  of  Praise-the-Ladies  Meissen, 
who  wrote  songs,  '  somewhat  of  lust,  and  somewhat  of 
love.'  But  where  sleeps  the  dust  of  his  rival  and  foe, 
sweet  Master  Bartholomew  Rainbow  ?  " 

He  meant  this  for  an  aside  ;  but  the  turkey-cock 
picked  it  up,  and  answered  : — 

"  I  do  not  know.     He  did  not  belong  to  this  parish." 

It  was  already  night  when  Flemming  crossed  the 
3 


34  HYPERION, 

Roman  bridge  over  the  Nahc,  and  entered  the  town  <A 
Bingcn.  He  stopped  at  the  White  Horse  ;  and,  before 
going  to  bed,  looked  out  into  the  dim  starlight  from  his 
window  towards  the  Rhine,  and  his  heart  leaped  up  to 
behold  the  bold  outline  of  the  neighboring  hills  crested 
with  Gothic  ruins ;  which  in  the  morning  proved  to  be 
only  a  high  slated  roof,  with  fantastic  chimneys. 

The  morning  was  bright  and  frosty  ;  and  the  river 
tinged  with  gay  colors  by  the  rising  sun.  A  soft,  thin 
vapor  floated  in  the  air.  In  the  sunbeams  flashed  the 
hoar-frost  like  silver  stars ;  and  through  a  long  avenue 
of  trees,  whose  dripping  branches  bent  and  scattered 
pearls  before  him,  Paul  Flemming  journeyed  on  in 
triumph. 

I  will  not  prolong  this  journey,  for  I  am  weary  and 
way-worn,  and  would  fain  be  at  Heidelberg  with  my 
readers  and  my  hero.  It  was  already  night  when  he 
reached  the  Manheim  gate,  and  drove  down  the  long 
Hauptstrasse  so  slowly,  that  it  seemed  to  him  endless.  The 
shops  were  lighted  on  each  side  of  the  street,  and  he  saw 
faces  at  the  windows  here  and  there,  and  figures  passing 
in  the  lamplight,  visible  for  a  moment,  and  then  swal 
lowed  up  in  the  darkness.  The  thoughts  that  filled  his 
mind  were  strange  ;  as,are  always  those  of  a  traveller  who 
enters  for  the  first  time  a  strange  city.  This  little  world 
had  been  going  on  for  centuries  before  he  came  ;  and 
would  go  on  for  centuries  after  he  was  gone.  Of  all  the 
thousands  who  inhabited  it,  he  knew  nothing ;  and  what 
knew  they,  or  thought,  of  the  stranger,  who,  in  that  close 
post-chaise,  weary  with  travel,  and  chilled  by  the  evening 
wind,  was  slowly  rumbling  over  the  paved  street  ?  Truly, 
this  world  can  go  on  without  us,  if  we  would  but  think 
so.  If  it  had  been  a  hearse  instead  of  a  post-chaise,  it 


A  ROMANCE.  35 

Would  have  been  all  the  same  to  the  people  of  Heidelberg, 
— though  by  no  means  the  same  to  Paul  Flemming. 

But  at  the  farther  end  of  the  city,  near  the  Castle  and 
the  Carls-Thor,  one  warm  heart  was  waiting  to  receivt 
him ;  and  this  was  the  German  heart  of  his  friend,  the 
Baron  of  Hohenfels,  with  whom  he  was  to  pass  the  winter 
in  Heidelberg.  No  sooner  had  the  carriage  stopped  at 
the  iron-grated  gate,  and  the  postilion  blown  his  horn,  to 
announce  the  arrival  of  a  traveller,  than  the  Baron  was 
seen  among  the  servants  at  the  door  ;  and,  a  few  mo 
ments  afterwards,  the  two  long  absent  friends  were  in 
each  other's  arms,  and  Flemming  received  a  kiss  upon 
each  cheek,  and  another  on  the  mouth,  as  a  pledge  and 
seal  of  the  German's  friendship.  They  held  each  other 
long  by  the  hand,  and  looked  into  each  other's  face,  and 
saw  themselves  in  each  other's  eyes,  both  literally  and 
figuratively ;  literally,  inasmuch  as  the  images  were 
there  ;  and  figuratively,  inasmuch  as  each  Avas  imagining 
what  the  other  thought  of  him,  after  the  lapse  of  some 
years.  In  friendly  hopes  and  questionings  and  answers, 
the  evening  glided  away  at  the  supper-table,  where  many 
more  things  were  discussed  than  the  roasted  hare  and  the 
Johannisberger ;  and  they  sat  late  into  the  night,  con 
versing  of  the  thoughts  and  feelings  and  delights  which 
fill  the  hearts  of  young  men  who  have  already  enjoyed  and 
suffered,  and  hoped  and  been  disappointed. 


CHAPTER  VL 

\ 

HEIDELBERG   AND  THE   BARON. 

HIGH  and  hoar  on  the  forehead  of  the  Jettenbllhl 
stands  the  Castle  of  Heidelberg.  Behind  it  rise  the 
oak-crested  hills  of  the  Geissberg  and  the  Kaiserstuhl ; 
and  in  front,  from  the  broad  terrace  of  masonry,  you  can 
almost  throw  a  stone  upon  the  roofs  of  the  city,  so  close 
do  they  lie  beneath.  Above  this  terrace  rises  the  broad 
front  of  the  chapel  of  Saint  Udalrich.  On  the  left  stands 
the  slender  octagon  tower  of  the  horologe  ;  and  on  the 
right,  a  huge  round  tower,  battered  and  shattered  by  the 
mace  of  war,  shores  up  with  its  broad  shoulders,  the 
beautiful  palace  and  garden-terrace  of  Elizabeth,  wife  of 
the  Pfalzgraf  Frederick.  In  the  rear  are  older  palaces 
and  towers,  forming  a  vast,  irregular  quadrangle  ;  — 
Rodolph's  ancient  castle,  with  its  Gothic  gloriette  and 
fantastic  gables ;  the  Giant's  Tower,  guarding  the  draw* 
bridge  over  the  moat ;  the  Rent  Tower,  with  the  linden- 
trees  growing  on  its  summit ;  and  the  magnificent  Ritter- 
saal  of  Otho-Henry,  Count  Palatine  of  the  Rhine  and 
Grand  Seneschal  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire.  From  the 
gardens  behind  the  castle,  you  pass  under  the  archway  of 
the  Giant's  Tower  into  the  great  courtyard.  The  diverse 
architecture  of  different  ages  strikes  the  eye,  and  curious 
sculptures.  In  niches  on  the  wall  of  Saint  Udalrich' s 
chapel  stand  rows  of  knights  in  armor,  all  broken  and 
dismembered  ;  and  on  the  front  of  Otho's  Rittersaal,  thfr 
36 


A  ROMANCE.  ?7 

heroes  of  Jewish  history  and  classic  fable.  You  enter  the 
open  and  desolate  chambers  of  the  ruin  ;  and  on  ever* 
side  are  medallions  and  family  arms ;  the  Globe  of  thf» 
Empire  and  the  Golden  Fleece,  or  the  Eagle  of  the  Cae 
sars,  resting  on  the  escutcheons  of  Bavaria  and  the  Pala 
tinate.  Over  the  windows  and  doorways  and  chimney- 
pieces  arc  sculptures  and  mouldings  of  exquisite  work 
manship  ;  and  the  eye  is  bewildered  by  the  profusion  of 
caryatides,  and  arabesques  and  rosettes,  and  fan-like 
{lutings,  and  garlands  of  fruits  and  flowers  and  acorns, 
and  bullocks'  heads  with  draperies  of  foliage,  and  muzzles 
of  lions,  holding  rings  in  their  teeth.  The  cunning  hand 
of  Art  was  busy  for  six  centuries  in  raising  and  adorning 
these  walls  ;  the  mailed  hands  cf  Time  and  War  have  de- 
caced  and  overthrown  them  in  less  than  two.  Next  to 
the  Alhambra  of  Granada,  the  castle  of  Heidelberg  is  the 
most  magnificent  ruin  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

In  the  valley  below  flows  the  rushing  stream  of  the 
Neckar.  Close  from  its  margin,  on  the  opposite  side, 
rises  the  Mountain  of  All-Saints,  crowned  with  the  ruins 
of  a  convent ;  and  up  the  valley  stretches  the  mountain- 
curtain  of  the  Odemvald.  So  close  and  many  are  the 
hills  which  eastward  shut  the  valley  in,  that  the  river 
seems  a  lake.  But  westward  it  opens  upon  the  broad 
plain  of  the  Rhine,  like  the  mouth  of  a  trumpet ;  and 
like  the  blast  of  a  trumpet  is  at  times  the  wintry  wind 
through  this  narrow  mountain-pass.  The  blue  Alsatian 
hills  rise  beyond ;  and  on  a  platform  or  strip  of  level 
land,  between  the  Neckar  and  the  mountains,  right 
under  the  castle,  stands  the  city  of  Heidelberg ;  as  the 
old  song  says,  "  a  pleasant  town,  when  it  has  done  rain 
ing." 

Something  of  this  did  Paul  Flemming  behold,  when  he 


38  HYPERION, 

rose  the  next  morning  and  looked  from  his  window.  It 
was  a  warm,  vapory  morning,  and  a  struggle  was  going  on 
between  the  mist  and  the  rising  sun.  The  sun  had  taken 
the  hill-tops,  but  the  mist  still  kept  possession  of  the  val 
ley  and  the  town.  The  steeple  of  the  great  church  rose 
through  a  dense  mass  of  snow-white  clouds  ;  and  eastward 
on  the  hills  the  dim  vapors  were  rolling  across  the  win 
dows  of  the  ruined  castle,  like  the  fiery  smoke  of  a  fierce 
conflagration.  It  seemed  to  him  an  image  of  the  rising 
of  the  sun  of  Truth  on  a  benighted  world  ;  its  light 
streamed  through  the  ruins  of  centuries  ;  and,  down  in 
the  Valley  of  Time,  the  cross  on  the  Christian  church 
caught  its  rays,  though  the  priests  were  singing  in  mist 
and  darkness  below. 

In  the  warm  breakfast-parlor  he  found  the  Baron  wait 
ing  for  him.  He  was  lying  upon  a  sofa,  in  morning  gown 
and  purple-velvet  slippers,  both  with  flowers  upon  them. 
He  had  a  guitar  in  his  hand,  and  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  at 
the  same  time  smoking,  playing,  and  humming  his  favor 
ite  song  from  Goethe  : — 

"The  water  rushed,  the  water  swelled, 
A  fisher  sat  thereby." 

Flemming  could  hardly  refrain  from  laughing  at  the 
eight  of  his  friend  ;  and  tol  1  him  it  reminded  him  of  a 
street-musician  he  once  saw  in  Aix-la-Ohapelle,  who  was 
playing  upon  six  instruments  at  once  ;  having  a  helmet 
with  bells  on  his  head,  a  Pan's-rced  in  his  cravat,  a  fiddle 
m  his  hand,  a  triangle  on  his  knee,  cymbals  on  his  heels, 
and  on  his  back  a  brass-drum,  which  he  played  with  his 
elbows.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  Baron  of  Hohenfels  was 
rather  a  miscellaneous  youth,  rather  a  universal  genius. 
He  pursued  all  things  with  eagerness,  but  for  a  short  time 


A  ROMANCE.  39 

only :  musk1,,  poetry,  painting,  pleasure,  even  the  study 
of  the  Pandects.  His  feelings  were  keenly  alive  to  the 
enjoyment  of  life.  His  great  defect  was,  that  he  was  too 
much  in  love  with  human  nature.  But  by  the  power  of 
imagination,  in  him,  the  bearded  goat  was  changed  to  a 
bright  Capricornus  ; — no  longer  an  animal  on  earth,  but 
a  constellation  in  heaven.  An  easy  and  indolent  disposi 
tion  made  him  gentle  and  childlike  in  his  manners  ;  and, 
in  short,  the  beauty  of  his  character,  like  that  of  the  pre 
cious  opal,  was  owing  to  a  defect  in  its  organization.  His 
person  was  tall  and  slightly  built ;  his  hair  light ;  and  his 
eyes  blue,  and  as  beautiful  as  those  of  a  girl.  In  the  tones 
of  his  voice  there  was  something  indescribably  gentle  and 
winning;  and  he  spoke  the  German  language  with  the 
soft,  musical  accent  of  his  native  province  of  Curland. 
In  his  manners,  if  he  had  not  "  Antinoiis'  easy  sway,"  ho 
had  at  least  an  easy  sway  of  his  own.  Such,  in  few 
words,  was  the  friend  of  Flemming. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  Heidelberg  and  the  old 
castle  up  there  ? "  said  he,  as  they  seated  themselves  at 
the  breakfast-table. 

"  Last  night  the  town  seemed  very  long  to  me,"  replied 
Flemming ;  "  and  as  to  the  castle,  I  have  as  yet  had  but 
a  glimpse  of  it  through  the  mist.  They  tell  me  there  is 
nothing  finer  in  its  way,  excepting  the  AlLambra  of 
Grenada  ;  and  no  doubt  I  shall  find  it  so.  Only  I  wish 
the  stone  were  gray,  and  not  red.  But,  red  or  gray,  I 
foresee  that  I  shall  waste  many  a  long  hour  in  its  desolate 
halls.  Pray,  does  anybody  live  up  there  now-a-days  ?  " 

" Nobody,"  answered  the  Baron,  "but  the  man  who 
shows  the  Heidelberg  Ton,  and  Monsieur  Charles  de 
Grainberg,  a  Frenchman,  who  has  been  there  sketching 
ever  since  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  ten.  He  has, 


40  HYPERION, 

moreover,  written  a  super-magnificent  description  of  the 
ruin,  in  which  he  says,  that  during  the  day  only  birds  of 
prey  disturb  it  with  their  piercing  cries,  and  at  night, 
screech-owls,  and  other  fallow  deer.  These  are  his  own 
words.  You  must  buy  his  book  and  his  sketches." 

"  Yes,  the  quotation  and  the  tone  of  your  voice  will 
certainly  persuade  me  so  to  do." 

"Take  his  or  none,  my  friend,  for  you  will  find  no 
others.  And  seriously,  his  sketches  are  very  good.  There 
is  one  on  the  wall  there,  which  is  beautiful,  save  and 
except  that  straddle-bug  figure  among  the  bushes  in  the 
corner.'* 

"  But  is  there  no  ghost,  no  haunted  chamber  in  the  old 
castle  ?  "  asked  Flemming,  after  casting  a  hasty  glance  at 
the  picture. 

"  0,  certainly,"  replied  the  Baron ;  "  there  are  two. 
There  is  the  ghost  of  the  Virgin  Mary  in  Ruprecht's 
Tower,  and  the  Devil  in  the  Dungeon." 

"  Ha  !  that  is  grand  ! "  exclaimed  Flemming,  with  evi 
dent  delight.  "  Tell  me  the  whole  story,  quickly  !  I 
am  as  curious  as  a  child." 

"  It  is  a  tale  of  the  times  of  Louis  le  Debonnaire,"  said 
the  Baron,  with  a  smile;  "a  mouldy  tradition  of  a 
credulous  age.  His  brother  Frederick  lived  here  in  the . 
castle  with  him,  and  had  a  flirtation  Avith  Leonore  von 
Luzelstein,  a  lady  of  the  court,  whom  he  afterwards 
despised,  and  was  consequently  most  cordially  hated  by 
her.  From  political  motives,  he  was  equally  hateful  to  cer-' 
tain  petty  German  tyrants,  who,  in  order  to  effect  his  ruin, 
accused  him  of  heresy.  But  his  brother  Louis  would  not 
deliver  him  up  to  their  fury,  and  they  resolved  to  effect 
by  stratagem  what  they  could  not  by  intrigue.  Accord 
ingly,  Leouore  von  Luzelstein,  disguised  as  the  Virgin 


A  ROMANCE.  41 

Mary,  and  the  father  confessor  of  the  Elector,  in  the 
costume  of  Satan,  made  their  appearance  in  the  Elector's 
bedchamber  at  midnight,  and  frighted  him  so  horribly, 
that  he  consented  to  deliver  up  his  brother  into  the  hands 
of  two  Black  Knights,  who  pretended  to  be  ambassadors 
from  the  Vehm-Gericht.  They  proceeded  together  to 
Frederick's  chamber  ;  where,  luckily,  old  Gemmingen,  a 
brave  soldier,  kept  guard  behind  the  arras.  The  monk 
went  foremost  in  his  Satanic  garb  ;  but  no  sooner  had  ho 
set  foot  in  the  prince's  bedchamber,  than  the  brave  Gem 
mingen  drew  his  sword,  and  said  quaintly,  '  Die,  wretch! ' 
and  so  he  died.  The  rest  took  to  their  heels,  and  were 
heard  of  no  more.  And  now  the  souls  of  Leonore  and 
the  monk  haunt  the  scene  of  their  midnight  crime.  You 
will  find  the  story  in  Grainberg's  book,  worked  up  with 
a  kind  of  red-morocco  and  burnt-cork  sublimity,  and  great 
melodramatic  clanking  of  chains,  and  hooting  of  owls, 
and  other  fallow  deer  ! " 

"  After  breakfast,"  said  Flemming,  "  we  will  go  up  to 
the  castle.  I  must  get  acquainted  with  this  mirror  of 
owls,  this  modern  Till  Eulenspiegel.  See  what  a  glorious 
morning  we  have  !  It  is  truly  a  wondrous  winter  !  what 
summer  sunshine  !  what  soft  Venetian  fogs  !  How  the 
wanton,  treacherous  air  coquets  with  the  old  graybeard 
trees  !  Such  weather  makes  the  grass  and  our  beards 
grow  apace  !  But  we  have  an  old  saying  in  English,  that 
winter  never  rots  in  the  sky.  So  he  will  come  down  at 
last  in  his  old-fashioned  mealy  coat.  We  shall  have  snow 
in  spring  ;  and  the  blossoms  will  be  all  snow-flakes.  And 
afterwards  a  summer,  which  will  be  no  summer,  but,  as 
Jean  Paul  says,  only  a  winter  painted  green.  Is  it  not 
so?" 

"  Unless  I  am  much  deceived  in  the  climate  of  Heidel- 


43  HYPERION. 

berg,"  replied  the  Baron,  "we  shall  not  have  to  wait  long 
for  snow.  We  have  sudden  changes  here  ;  and  I  should 
not  marvel  much  if  it  snowed  before  night." 

"  The  greater  reason  for  making  good  use  of  the  morn 
ing  sunshine,  then.  Let  us  hasten  to  the  castle,  after 
which  my  heart  yearns." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LIVES   OF    SCHOLARS. 

THE  forebodings  of  the  Baron  proved  true.  In  ilia 
afternoon  the  weather  changed.  The  western  wind 
began  to  blow,  and  its  breath  drew  a  cloud-veil  over  the 
face  of  Heaven,  as  a  breath  does  over  the  human  face  in  a 
mirror.  Soon  the  snow  began  to  fall.  Athwart  the  dis 
tant  landscape  it  swept  like  a  white  mist.  The  storm- 
wind  came  from  the  Alsatian  hills,  and  struck  the  dense 
clouds  aslant  through  the  air.  And  ever  faster  fell  the 
snow,  a  roaring  torrent  from  those  mountainous  clouds. 
The  setting  sun  glared  wildly  from  the  summit  of  the  hills, 
and  sank  like  a  burning  ship  at  sea,  wrecked  in  the 
tempest.  Thus  the  evening  set  in  ;  and  winter  stood  at 
the  gate  wagging  his  white  and  shaggy  beard,  like  an  old 
harper  chanting  an  old  rhyme  : — "  How  cold  it  is  !  how 
cold  it  is  !  " 

"I  like  such  a  storm  as  this,"  said  Flemrning,  who 
stood  at  the  window,  looking  out  into  the  tempest  and  the 
gathering  darkness.  "  The  silent  falling  of  snow  is  to 
me  one  of  the  most  sdlemn  things  in  nature.  The  fall  of 
autumnal  leaves  does  not  so  much  affect  me.  But  the 
driving  storm  is  grand.  It  startles  me  ;  it  awakens  me. 
It  is  wild  and  woful,  like  my  own  soul.  I  cannot  help 
thinking-  of  the  sea  ;  how  the  waves  run  and  toss  their 
arms  about, — and  the  wind  plays  on  those  great  harps 
made  by  the  shrouds  and  masts  of  ships.  Winter  is  here 

43 


44  HYPERION, 

in  earnest !  Whew  !  How  the  old  churl  whistles  and 
threshes  the  snow  !  Sleet  and  rain  are  falling  too. 
Already  the  trees  are  bearded  with  icicles  ;  and  the  two 
broad  branches  of  yonder  pine  look  like  the  white  mus 
tache  of  some  old  German  Baron." 

"  And  to-morroAv  it  will  look  more  wintry  still,"  said 
his  friend.  "We  shall  wake  up  and  find  that  the  frost- 
spirit  has  been  at  work  all  night  building  Gothic  cathe 
drals  on  our  windows,  just  as  the  Devil  built  the  Cathe 
dral  of  Cologne.  So  draw  the  curtains,  and  come,  sit 
here  by  the  warm  fire." 

"  And  now,"  said  Flemming,  having  done  as  his  friend 
desired,  "tell  me  something  of  Heidelberg  and  its  Uni 
versity.  I  suppose  we  shall  lead  about  as  solitary  and 
studious  a  life  here  as  we  did  of  yore  in  little  Gottingen, 
with  nothing  to  amuse  us,  save  our  own  day-dreams." 

"Pretty  much  so,"  replied  the  Baron;  "which  can 
not  fail  to  please  you,  since  you  are  in  pursuit  of  tran 
quillity.  As  to  the  University,  it  is,  as  you  know,  one  of 
the  oldest  in  Germany.  It  was  founded  in  the  fourteenth 
century  by  the  Count  Palatine  Euprecht,  and  had  in  the 
first  year  more  than  five  hundred  students,  all  busily 
committing  to  memory,  after  the  old  scholastic  wise,  the 
rules  of  grammar  versified  by  Alexander  de  Villa  Dei,  and 
the  extracts  made  by  Peter  the  Spaniard  from  Michel 
Psellus's  Synopsis  of  Aristotle's  Organon^  and  the  Cate 
gories,  with  Porphyry's  Commentaries.  Truly,  I  do  not 
much  wonder  that  Erigena  Scotus  should  have  been  put 
to  death  by  his  scholars  with  their  penknives.  They  nrnst 
have  been  pushed  to  the  very  verge  of  despair." 

"What  a  strange  picture  a  university  presents  to  the 
imagination  !  The  lives  of  scholars  in  their  cloistered 
stillness  ; — literary  men  of  retired  habits,  and  professors 


A  ROMANCE.  45 

who  study  sixteen  hours  a  day,  and  never  see  the  world 
?ut  on  a  Sunday.  Nature  has,  no  doubt,  for  some  wise 
purpose,  placed  in  their  hearts  this  love  of  literary  labor 
•ind  seclusion.  Otherwise,  who  would  feed  the  undying 
lamp  of  thought  ?  But  for  such  men  as  these,  a  blast  of 
wind  through  the  chinks  and  crannies  of  this  old  world, 
or  the  flapping  of  a  conqueror's  banner,  would  blow  it 
out  forever.  The  light  of  the  soul  is  easily  extinguished. 
And  whenever  I  reflect  upon  these  things,  I  become  aware 
of  the  great  importance,  in  a  nation's  history,  of  the  in 
dividual  fame  of  scholars  and  literary  men.  I  fear  that 
it  is  far  greater  than  the  world  is  willing  to  acknowledge  ; 
or,  perhaps  I  should  say,  than  the  world  has  thought  of 
acknowledging.  Blot  out  from  England's  history  the 
names  of  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  Spenser,  and  Milton 
only,  and  how  much  of  her  glory  would  you  blot  out  with 
them  !  Take  from  Italy  such  names  as  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Boccaccio,  Michel  Angelo,  and  Eaphael,  and  how  much 
would  be  wanting  to  the  completeness  of  her  glory  !  How 
would  the  history  of  Spain  look,  if  the  leaves  were  torn 
out  on  which  are  written  the  names  of  Cervantes,  Lope 
de  Vega,  and  Calderon  ?  What  would  be  the  fame  of 
Portugal,  without  her  Camoens  ;  of  France,  without  her 
Eacine,  and  Rabelais,  and  Voltaire  ;  or  of  Germany,  with 
out  her  Martin  Luther,  her  Goethe,  and  her  Schiller  ? — 
Nay,  what  were  the  nations  of  old,  without  their  philoso 
phers,  poets,  and  historians  ?  Tell  me,  do  not  these  men, 
in  all  ages  and  in  all  places,  emblazon  with  bright  colors 
the  armorial  bearings  of  their  country  ?  Yes,  and  far 
more  than  this  ;  for  in  all  ages  and  in  all  places  they  give 
humanity  assurance  of  its  greatness,  and  say,  '  Call  not 
this  time  or  people  wholly  barbarous ;  for  thus  much, 
even  then  and  there,  could  the  human  mind  achieve  V 


46  HYPERION. 

But  the  boisterous  world  lias  hardly  thought  of  acknowl 
edging  all  this.  Therein  it  has  shown  itself  somewhat 
ungrateful.  Else,  whence  the  great  reproach,  the  general 
scorn,  the  loud  derision,  with  which,  to  take  a  familiar 
example,  the  monks  of  the  Middle  Ages  are  regarded  ? 
That  they  slept  their  lives  away  is  most  untrue.  For  in 
an  age  when  books  were  few, — so  few,  so  precious,  that 
they  were  often  chained  to  their  oaken  shelves  with  iron 
chains,  like  galley-slaves  to  their  benches, — these  men, 
with  their  laborious  hands,  copied  upon  parchment  all 
the  lore  and  wisdom  of  the  past,  and  transmitted  it  to  us. 
Perhaps  it  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that,  but  for  these 
monks,  not  one  line  of  the  classics  would  have  reached 
our  day.  Surely,  then,  we  can  pardon  something  to  those 
superstitious  ages,  perhaps  even  the  mysticism  of  the 
scholastic  philosophy  ;  since,  after  all,  we  can  find  no 
harm  in  it,  only  the  mistaking  of  the  possible  for  the  real; 
and  the  high  aspirings  of  the  human  mind  after  a  long 
sought  and  unknown  somewhat.  I  think  the  name  of 
Martin  Luther,  the  monk  of  "Wittenberg,  alone  sufficient 
to  redeem  all  monkhood  from  the  reproach  of  laziness. 
If  this  will  not,  perhaps  the  vast  folios  of  Thomas  Aqui 
nas  will ;  or  the  countless  manuscripts,  still  treasured  in 
old  libraries^  whose  yellow  and  wrinkled  pages  remind 
one  of  the  hands  that  wrote  them  and  the  faces  that  once 
bent  over  them." 

"An  eloquent  homily,"  said  the  Baron,  laughing  ;  "a 
most  touching  appeal  in  behalf  of  suffering  humanity ! 
For  my  part,  I  am  no  friend  of  this  entire  seclusion  from 
the  world.  It  has  a  very  injurious  effect  on  the  mind  of 
a  scholar.  The  Chinese  proverb  is  true  :  a  single  con 
versation  across  the  table  with  a  wise  man  is  better  than 
ten  years'  mere  study  of  books.  I  have  known  some  «f 


A  ROMANCE.  47 

these  literary  men  who  thus  shut  themselves  up  from  the 
world.  Their  minds  never  come  in  contact  with  those 
of  their  fellow-men.  They  read  little.  They  think 
much.  They  are  mere  dreamers.  They  know  not  what 
is  new  nor  what  is  old.  They  often  strike  upon  trains  of 
thought,  which  stand  written  in  good  authors  some  cen 
tury  or  so  back,  and  are  even  current  in  the  mouths  of 
men  around  them.  But  they  know  it  not ;  and  imagine 
they  arc  bringing  forward  something  very  original,  when 
they  publish  their  thoughts." 

"  It  reminds  me,"  replied  Flemming,  "  of  what  Dr. 
Johnson  said  of  Goldsmith,  when  he  proposed  to  travel 
abroad  in  order  to  bring  home  improvements  : — *  He  wilJ 
bring  home  a  wheelbarrow,  and  call  that  an  improve 
ment.'  It  is  unfortunately  the  same  with  some  of  these 
scholars. " 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  said  the  Baron,  "that,  in 
solitude,  some  fixed  idea  will  often  take  root  in  the  mind, 
and  grow  till  it  overshadow  all  one's  thoughts.  To  this 
must  all  opinions  come ;  no  thought  can  enter  there, 
which  shall  not  be  wedded  to  the  fixed  idea.  There  it 
remains,  and  grows.  It  is  like  the  watchman's  wife  in 
the  Tower  of  Waiblingen,  who  grew  to  such  a  size,  that 
she  could  not  get  down  the  narrow  staircase  ;  and  when 
her  husband  died,  his  successor  was  forced  to  many  the 
fat  widow  in  the  Tower." 

"I  remember  an  old  English  comedy,"  said  Flem- 
ming,  laughing,  "in  which  a  scholar  is  described  as 
a  creature  that  can  strike  fire  in  the  morning  at  hip 
tinder-box, — put  on  a  pair  of  lined  slippers, — sit  ru 
minating  till  dinner,  and  then  go  to  his  meat  when  the 
bell  rings  ; — one  that  hath  a  peculiar  gift  in  a  cough  ana 
a  license  to  spit ; — or,  if  you  will  have  him  defined  by 


48  HYPERION, 

negatives,  Itie  is  one  that  cannot  make  a  good  leg. — one 
that  cannot  oat  a  mess  of  broth  cleanly.  What  think  you 
of  that?" 

"  That  Is  just  as  people  are  always  represented  in  Eng. 
lish  comedy,"  said  the  Baron.  "  The  portrait  is  over 
charged, — caricatured. " 

"And  yet,"  continued  Flemming,  "no  longer  ago 
than  yesterday,  in  the  preface  of  a  work  by  Dr.  Eosen- 
kranz,  Professor  of  Philosophy  in  the  University  of 
Halle,  I  read  this  passage." 

He  opened  a  book  and  read  : — 

"  Here  in  Halle,  where  we  have  no  public  garden  and 
no  Tivoli,  no  London  Exchange,  no  Paris  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  no  Berlin  or  Vienna  theatres,  no  Strasburg 
Minster  nor  Salzburg  Alps,  no  Grecian  ruins  nor  fantas 
tic  Catholicism,  —  in  fine,  nothing,  which,  after  one's 
daily  task  is  finished,  can  divert  and  refresh  him,  without 
his  knowing  or  caring  how, — I  consider  the  sight  of  a 
proof-sheet  quite  as  delightful  as  a  walk  in  the  Prater  of 
Vienna.  I  fill  my  pipe  very  quietly,  take  out  my  ink 
stand  and  pens,  seat  myself  in  the  corner  of  my  sofa, 
read,  correct,  and  now  for  the  first  time  really  set  about 
thinking  what  I  have  written.  To  see  this  origin  of  a 
book,  this  metamorphosis  of  manuscript  into  print,  is  a 
delight  to  which  I  give  myself  up  entirely.  Look  you, — 
this  melancholy  pleasure,  which  would  have  furnished 
the  departed  Voss  with  worthy  matter  for  more  than  one 
blessed  Idyl  (the  more  so,  as  on  such  occasions  I  am  gen 
erally  arrayed  in  a  morning  gown,  though,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  not  a  calamanco  one,  with  great  flowers), — this  mel 
ancholy  pleasure  has  already  grown  here  in  Halle  to  a 
sweet,  pedantic  habit.  Since  I  began  my  hermit's  life 
here,  I  have  been  printing ;  and  so  long  as  I  remain  here, 


A  ROMANCE.  49 

1  shall  keep  on  printing.     In  all  probability,  I  shall  die 
with  a  proof -sheet  in  my  hand." 

"This,"  said  Flcmming,  closing  the  book,  "is  no 
caricature  by  a  writer  of  comedy,  but  a  portrait  by  a  man's 
own  hand.  We  can  see  by  it  how  easily,  under  certain 
circumstances,  one  may  glide  into  the  habits  of  seclusion, 
and  in  a  kind  of  undress,  slipshod  hardihood,  with  a  pipe 
and  a  proof-sheet,  defy  the  world.  Into  this  state  scholars 
have  too  often  fallen  ;  thus  giving  some  ground  for  the 
prevalent  opinion  that  scholarship  and  rusticity  arc  in 
separable.  To  me,  I  confess,  it  is  painful  to  see  the 
scholar  and  the  world  assume  so  often  a  hostile  attitude, 
and  set  each  other  at  defiance.  Surely,  it  is  a  character 
istic  trait  of  a  great  and  liberal  mind,  that  it  recognizes 
humanity  in  all  its  forms  and  conditions.  I  am  a  student ; 
— and  always,  when  I  sit  alone  at  night,  I  recognize  the 
divinity  of  the  student,  as  she  reveals  herself  to  me  in  the 
flame  ol  the  midnight  lamp.  But,  because  solitude  and 
books  are  not  unpleasant- to  me, — nay,  wished  for,  sought 
after, — shall  I  say  to  my  brother,  Thou  fool  !  Shall  I 
take  the  world  by  the  beard,  and  say,  Thou  art  old,  and 
mad !  Shall  I  look  society  in  the  face,  and  say,  Thou 
art  heartless  ! — Heartless  !  Beware  of  that  word  !  Life, 
says,  very  wisely,  the  good  Jean  Paul,  '  Life  in  every 
shape  should  be  precious  to  us,  for  the  same  reason  that 
the  Turks  carefully  collect  every  scrap  of  paper  that 
comes  in  their  way,  because  the  name  of  God  may  bo 
written  upon  it.'  Nothing  is  more  true  than  this,  yet 
nothing  more  neglected." 

"  If  it  be  painful  to  see  this  misunderstanding  between 

scholars  and  the  world,"  said  the  Baron,  "I  think  it  is 

still  more  painful  to  see  the  private  sufferings  of  authors 

by  profession.     How  many  have  languished  in  poverty, 

4 


60  HYPERION, 

how  many  died  broken-hearted,  how  many  gone  mad 
with  over-excitement  and  disappointed  hopes  !  How  in 
structive  and  painfully  interesting  are  their  lives  !  with 
so  many  weaknesses,  so  much  to  pardon,  so  much  to  pity, 
so  much  to  admire  !  I  think  he  was  not  so  far  out  of  the 
way  who  said  that,  next  to  the  Newgate  Calendar,  the  Bi 
ography  of  Authors  is  the  most  sickening  chapter  in  the 
history  of  man." 

"  It  is  indeed  enough  to  make  one's  heart  ache  ! "  in 
terrupted  Flemming.  "  Only  think  of  Johnson  and 
Savage,  rambling  about  the  streets  of  London  at  mid 
night,  without  a  place  to  sleep  in ;  Otway  starved  to 
death  ;  Cowley  mad,  and  howling  like  a  dog,  through  the 
aisles  of  Chichester  Cathedral,  at  the  sound  of  church 
music  !  and  Goldsmith,  strutting  up  Fleet  Street  in  his 
peach-blossom  coat,  to  knock  a  bookseller  over  the  pate 
with  one  of  his  own  volumes  ;  and  then,  in  his  poverty, 
about  to  marry  his  landlady  in  Green  Arbor  Court." 

"  A  life  of  sorrow  and  privation,  a  hard  life  indeed, 
do  these  poor  devil  authors  have  of  it,"  replied  the  Baron  ; 
"and  then  at  last  must  get  them  to  the  workhouse,  or 
creep  away  into  some  hospital  to  die." 

"After  all,"  said  Flemming,  with  a  sigh,  "poverty  is 
not  a  crime." 

"  But  something  worse,"  interrupted  the  Baron  ;  "as 
Dufresny  said,  when  he  married  his  laundress,  because  he 
could  not  pay  her  bill.  He  was  the  author,  as  you  know, 
of  the  opera  of  Lot,  at  whose  representation  the  great 
pun  was  made  ; — I  say  the  great  pun,  as  we  say  the 
great  ton  of  Heidelberg.  As  one  of  the  performers  was 
singing  the  line,  *  IS  amour  a  vaincu  Loth,'  (vingt 
culottes,}  a  voice  from  the  pit  cried  out,  '  Qu'il  en  donm 
une  a  Vauteur  I ' " 


A  ROMANCE.  51 

Flemming  laughed  at  the  unseasonable  jest ;  and  then, 
after  i\  short  pause,  continued  : — 

"  And  yet,  if  you  look  closely  at  the  causes  of  these 
calamities  of  authors,  you  will  find  that  many  of  them 
spring  from  false  and  exaggerated  ideas  of  poetry  and 
the  poetic  character  ;  and  from  disdain  of  common  sense, 
upon  which  all  character  worth  having  is  founded.  This 
comes  from  keeping  aloof  from  the  world,  apart  from  our 
fellow-men ;  disdainful  of  society,  as  frivolous.  By  too 
much  sitting  still  the  body  becomes  unhealthy,  and  soon 
the  mind.  This  is  nature's  law.  She  will  never  see  her 
children  wronged.  If  the  mind,  which  rules  the  body,  ever 
forgets  itself  so  far  as  to  trample  upon  its  slave,  the  slave 
is  never  generous  enough  to  forgive  the  injury,  but  will 
rise  and  smite  its  oppressor.  Thus  has  many  a  monarch 
mind  been  dethroned." 

"  After  all,"  said  the  Baron,  "  we  must  pardon  much 
to  men  of  genius.  A  delicate  organization  renders  them 
keenly  susceptible  to  pain  and  pleasure.  And  then  they 
idealize  everything  ;  and,  in  the  moonlight  of  fancy,  even 
the  deformity  of  vice  seems  beautiful." 

"  And  this  you  think  should  be  forgiven  ?" 

"  At  all  events,  it  is  forgiven.  The  world  loves  a 
spice  of  wickedness.  Talk  as  you  will  about  principle, 
impulse  is  more  attractive,  even  when  it  goes  too  far.  The 
passions  of  youth,  like  unhooded  hawks,  fly  high,  with 
musical  bells  upon  their  jesses  ;  and  we  forget  the  cruelty 
of  the  sport  in  the  dauntless  bearing  of  the  gallant  bird." 

"And  thus  do  the  world  and  society  corrupt  the 
scholar  ! "  exclaimed  Flemming. 

Here  the  Baron  rang,  and  ordered  a  bottle  of  Prince 
Metternich.  He  then  very  slowly  filled  his  pipe,  and 
began  to  smoke.  Flemming  was  lost  in  a  day-dream. 


CHAPTEE   VIII. 

LITEKAKY  FAME. 

has  a  Doomsday-Book,  upon  whoso  pages  he  is 
-L  continually  recording  illustrious  names.  But  as  often 
as  a  new  name  is  written  there,  an  old  one  disappears. 
Only  a  few  stand  in  illuminated  characters,  never  to  be  ef 
faced.  These  are  the  high  nobility  of  Nature, — Lords  of 
the  Public  Domain  of  Thought.  Posterity  shall  never 
question  their  titles.  But  those  whose  fame  lives  only  in 
the  indiscreet  opinion  of  unwise  men,  must  soon  be  as 
well  forgotten  as  if  they  had  never  been.  To  this  great 
oblivion  must  most  men  come.  It  is  better,  therefore, 
that  they  should  soon  make  up  their  minds  to  this, — 
well  knowing  that,  as  their  bodies  must  erelong  be  re 
solved  into  dust  again,  and  their  graves  tell  no  tales  of 
them,  so  must  their  names  likewise  be  utterly  forgotten, 
and  their  most  cherished  thoughts,  purposes,  and  opin 
ions  have  no  longer  an  individual  being  among  men,  but 
be  resolved  and  incorporated  into  the  universe  of  thought. 
If,  then,  the  imagination  can  trace  the  noble  dust  of  he 
roes,  till  we  find  it  stopping  a  beer-barrel,  and  know  that 

"  Imperial  Caesar,  dead  and  turned  to  clay, 
May  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away," — 

not  less  can  it  trace  the  noble  thoughts  of  great  men,  till 
it  finds  them  mouldered  into  the  common  dust  of  con 
versation,  and  used  to  stop  men's  mouths,  and  patch  up 


A  ROMANCE.  53 

theories,  to  keep  out  the  flaws  of  opinion.  Such,  foi 
example,  are  all  popular  adages  and  wise  proverbs,  which 
are  now  resolved  into  the  common  mass  of  thought ;  their 
authors  forgotten,  and  having  no  more  an  individual 
being  among  men. 

It  is  better,  therefore,  that  men  should  soon  make  up 
their  minds  to  be  forgotten,  and  look  about  them,  or 
within  them,  for  some  higher  motive,  in  what  they  do, 
than  the  approbation  of  men,  which  is  Fame, — namely, 
their  duty  ;  that  they  should  be  constantly  and  quietly  at 
work,  each  in  his  sphere,  regardless  of  effects,  and  leaving 
their  fame  to  take  care  of  itself.  Difficult  must  this 
indeed  be  in  our  imperfection ;  impossible,  perhaps,  to 
achieve  it  wholly.  Yet  the  resolute,  the  indomitable  will 
of  man  can  achieve  much, — at  times,  even  this  victory 
over  himself ;  being  persuaded  that  fame  comes  only 
when  deserved,  and  then  is  as  inevitable  as  destiny,  for 
it  is  destiny. 

It  has  become  a  common  saying,  that  men  of  genius 
are  always  in  advance  of  their  ago  ;  which  is  true.  There 
is  something  equally  true,  yet  not  so  common  ;  namely, 
that,  of  these  men  of  genius,  the  best  and  bravest  are  in 
advance,  not  only  of  their  own  age,  but  of  every  age.  As 
the  German  prose-poet  says,  every  possible  future  is  behind 
them.  We  cannot  suppose  that  a  period  of  time  will  ever 
come,  when  the  world,  or  any  considerable  portion  of  it, 
shall  have  come  up  abreast  with  these  great  minds,  so  aa 
fully  to  comprehend  them. 

And,  0,  how  majestically  they  walk  in  history  !  some 
like  the  sun,  "  with  all  his  travelling  glories  round  him"  ; 
others  wrapped  in  gloom,  yet  glorious  as  a  night  with 
stars.  Through  the  else  silent  darkness  of  the  past,  the 
spirit  hears  their  slow  and  solemn  footsteps.  Onward 


54  HYPERION, 

they  pass,  like  those  hoary  elders  seen  in  the  sublime  vis- 
ion  of  an  earthly  paradise,  attendant  angels  bearing  golden 
lights  before  them,  and,  above  and  behind,  the  whole  air 
painted  with  seven  listed  colors,  as  from  the  trail  of 
pennons ! 

And  yet,  on  earth,  these  men  were  not  happy, — not  all 
happy,  in  the  outward  circumstance  of  their  lives.  They 
were  in  want,  and  in  pain,  and  familiar  with  prison-bars, 
and  the  damp,  weeping  walls  of  dungeons  !  0,  I  have 
looked  with  wonder  upon  those  who,  in  sorrow  and  pri 
vation,  and  bodily  discomfort,  and  sickness,  which  is  the 
shadow  of  death,  have  worked  right  on  to  the  accomplish 
ment  of  their  great  purposes ;  toiling  much,  enduring 
much,  fulfilling  much  ; — and  then,  with  shattered  nerves, 
and  sinews  all  unstrung,  have  laid  themselves  down  in 
the  grave,  and  slept  the  sleep  of  death, — and  the  world 
talks  of  them,  while  they  sleep  !  - 

It  would  seem,  indeed,  as  if  their  sufferings  had  but 
sanctified  them  ;  as  if  the  death-angel,  in  passing,  had 
touched  them  with  the  hem  of  his  garment,  and  made 
them  holy ;  as  if  the  hand  of  disease  had  been  stretched 
out  over  them  only  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon 
their  souls  !  And  as  in  the  sun's  eclipse  we  can  behold 
the  great  stars  shining  in  the  heavens,  so  in  this  lifo- 
eclipse  have  these  men  beheld  the  lights  of  the  grett 
eternity,  burning  solemnly  and  forever  ! 

This  was  Flemming's  re  very.  It  was  broken  by  the 
voice  of  the  Baron,  suddenly  exclaiming  : — 

"An  angel  is  flying  over  the  house! — Here,  in  this 
goblet,  fragrant  as  the  honey  of  Hymettus,  fragrant  us 
the  wild-flowers  in  the  Angel's  Meadow,  I  drink  to  the 
divinity  of  thy  dreams." 

"This  is  all  sunshine,"  said  Flemming,  as  he  drank, 


A  ROMANCE.  55 

"  The  wine  of  the  Prince,  and  the  Prince  of  wines.  By 
the  way,  did  you  ever  read  that  brilliant  Italian  dithy- 
rambic,  Eedi's  Bacchus  in  Tuscany  ?  an  ode  which  seems 
to  have  been  poured  out  of  the  author's  soul,  as  from  a 

golden  pitcher, 

'  Filled  with  the  wine 
Of  the  vine 
Benign, 
That  flames  so  red  in  Sansavine,' 

He  calls  the  Montepulciano  the  king  of  all  wines." 

"  Prince  Metternich,"  said  the  Baron,  "  is  greater  than 
any  king  in  Italy ;  and  I  wonder  that  this  precious  wine 
has  never  inspired  a  German  poet  to  write  a  Bacchus  on 
the  Khine.  Many  little  songs  we  have  on  this  theme,  but 
none  very  extraordinary.  The  best  are  Max  Schenken- 
dorf's  Song  of  the  Rhine,  and  the  Song  of  Ehine  Wine, 
by  Claudius,  a  poet  who  never  drank  Ehenish  without 
sugar.  We  will  drink  for  him  a  blessing  on  the  Rhine." 
And  again  the  crystal  lips  of  the  goblets  kissed  each 
other,  with  a  musical  chime,  as  of  evening  bells  at  vin 
tage-time  from  the  villages  on  the  Rhine.  Of  a  truth, 
I  do  not  much  wonder  that  the  German  poet  Schiller 
loved  to  write  by  candle-light  with  a  bottle  of  Rhine- 
wine  upon  the  table.  Nor  do  I  wonder  at  the  worthy 
schoolmaster,  Roger  Ascham,  when  he  says,  in  one  of 
his  letters  from  Germany  to  Mr.  John  Raven,  of  John's 
College  :  "  Tell  Mr.  Maden  I  will  drink  with  him  now  a 
carouse  of  wine ;  and  would  to  God  he  had  a  vessel  of 
Rhenish  wine  ;  and  perchance,  when  I  come  to  Cam 
bridge,  I  will  so  provide  here,  that  every  year  I  will  have 
a  little  piece  of  Rhenish  wine."  Nor,  in  fine,  do  I  won 
der  at  the  German  emperor  of  whom  he  speaks  in  an« 
other  letter  to  the  same  John  Raven,  and  says,  "The 


56  BYPEH10N, 

emperor  drank  the  best  that  I  ever  saw  ;  he  had  his  head 
in  the  glass  five  times  as  long  as  any  of  us,  and  never 
drank  less  than  a  good  quart  at  once  of  Ehenish  wine." 
These  were  scholars  and  gentlemen. 

"But  to  resume  our  old  theme  of  scholars  and  their 
whereabout,"  said  the  Baron,  with  an  unusual  glow, 
caught,  no  doubt,  from  the  golden  sunshine,  imprisoned, 
like  the  student  Anselmus,  in  the  glass  bottle ;  "where 
should  the  scholar  live  ?  In  solitude,  or  in  society  ?  in 
the  green  stillness  of  the  country,  where  he  can  hear  the 
heart  of  Nature  beat,  or  in  the  dark,  gray  city,  where  he 
can  hear  and  feel  the  throbbing  heart  of  man  ?  I  will 
make  answer  for  him,  and  say,  in  the  dark,  gray  city. 
0,  they  do  greatly  err  who  think  that  the  stars  are  all 
the  poetry  which  cities  have ;  and  therefore  that  the 
poet's  only  dwelling  should  be  in  sylvan  solitudes,  under 
the  green  roof  of  trees.  Beautiful,  no  doubt,  are  all  the 
forms  of  Nature,  when  transfigured  by  the  miraculous 
power  of  poetry ;  hamlets  and  harvest-fields,  and  nut- 
brown  waters,  flowing  ever  under  the  forest,  vast  and 
shadowy,  with  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  rural  life. 
But  after  all,  what  are  these  but  the  decorations  and 
painted  scenery  in  the  great  theatre  of  human  life  ?  What 
are  they  but  the  coarse  materials  of  the  poet's  song  ? 
Glorious  indeed  is  the  world  of  God  around  us,  but  more 
glorious  the  world  of  God  within  us.  There  lies  the 
Land  of  Song ;  there  lies  the  poet's  native  land.  The 
river  of  life,  that  flows  through  streets  tumultuous,  bear 
ing  along  so  many  gallant  hearts,  so  many  wrecks  of  hu 
manity  ; — the  many  homes  and  households,  each  a  little 
world  in  itself,  revolving  round  its  fireside,  as  a  central 
sun ;  all  forms  of  human  joy  and  suffering,  brought  into 
that  narrow  compass  ; — and  to  be  in  this,  and  be  a  part 


A  ROMANCE.  57 

of  this ;  acting,  thinking,  rejoicing,  sorrowing,  with  his 
fellow-men  ; — such,  such  should  be  the  poet's  life.  If  he 
would  describe  the  world,  he  should  live  in  the  world. 
The  mind  of  the  scholar,  also,  if  you  would  have  it  large 
and  liberal,  should  come  in  contact  with  other  minds.  It 
is  better  that  his  armor  should  be  bruised  even  by  rude  en 
counter  than  hanging  forever  rusting  on  the  wall.  Nor  will 
his  themes  be  few  or  trivial,  because  apparently  shut  in  be 
tween  the  walls  of  houses,  and  having  merely  the  decora 
tions  of  street  scenery.  A  ruined  character  is  as  pictur 
esque  as  a  ruined  castle.  There  are  dark  abysses  and 
yawning  gulfs  in  the  human  heart,  which  can  be  rendered 
'passable  only  by  bridging  them  over  with  iron  nerves  and 
sinews,  as  Challey  bridged  the  Savine  in  Switzerland,  and 
Telf  ord  the  sea  between  Anglesea  and  England,  with  chain 
bridges.  These  are  the  great  themes  of  human  thought ; 
not  green  grass,  and  flowers,  and  moonshine.  Besides, 
the  mere  external  forms  of  Nature  we  make  our  own, 
and  carry  with  us  into  the  city,  by  the  power  of  memory." 
"I  fear,  however,"  interrupted  Flemming,  "that  in 
cities  the  soul  of  man  grows  proud.  He  needs  at  times 
to  be  sent  forth,  like  the  Assyrian  monarch,  into  green 
fields,  'a  wondrous  wretch  and  weedless,'  to  eat  green 
herbs,  and  be  wakened  and  chastised  by  the  rain  shower 
and  winter's  bitter  weather.  Moreover,  in  cities  there  is 
danger  of  the  soul's  becoming  wed  to  pleasure,  and  for 
getful  of  its  high  vocation.  There  have  been  souls  dedi 
cated  to  heaven  from  childhood,  and  guarded  by  good 
angels  as  sweet  seclusions  for  holy  thoughts,  and  prayers, 
and  all  good  purposes ;  wherein  pious  Avishes  dwelt  like 
nuns,  and  every  image  was  a  saint ;  and  yet  in  life's 
vicissitudes,  by  the  treachery  of  occasion,  by  the  throng 
ing  passions  of  great  cities,  have  become  soiled  and  sin- 


58  HYPERION, 

ful.  They  resemble  those  convents  on  the  river  Rhine, 
which  have  been  changed  to  taverns  ;  from  whose  cham 
bers  the  pious  inmates  have  long  departed,  and  in  whose 
cloisters  the  footsteps  of  travellers  have  effaced  the  images 
of  buried  saints,  and  whose  walls  are  written  over  with 
.  ribaldry  and  the  names  of  strangers,  and  resound  no  more 
with  holy  hymns,  but  with  revelry  and  loud  voices." 

"  Both  town  and  country  have  their  dangers,"  said  the 
Baron ;  "  and  therefore,  wherever  the  scholar  lives,  he 
must  never  forget  his  high  vocation.  Other  artists  give 
themselves  up  wholly  to  the  study  of  their  art.  It  be 
comes  with  them  almost  religicn.  For  the  most  part, 
and  in  their  youth  at  least,  they  dwell  in  lands  where  the 
whole  atmosphere  of  the  soul  is  beauty  ;  laden  with  it,  aa 
the  air  may  be  with  vapor,  till  their  very  nature  is  satura 
ted  with  the  genius  of  their  art.  Such,  for  example,  is 
the  artist's  life  in  Italy." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  exclaimed  Flemming  ;  "  and  such 
should  be  the  poet's  everywhere  ;  for  he  has  his  Rome,  hjs 
Florence,  his  whole  glowing  Italy,  within  the  four  walls 
of  his  library.  He  has  in  his  books  the  ruins  of  an  an 
tique  world, — and  the  glories  of  a  modern  one, — his 
Apollo  and  Transfiguration.  He  must  neither  forget  nor 
undervalue  his  vocation  ;  but  thank  God  that  he  is  a  poet ; 
and  everywhere  be  true  to  himself,  and  to  '  the  vision  and 
the  faculty  divine  '  he  feels  within  him." 

"But  at  any  rate,  a  city  life  is  most  eventful,"  con 
tinued  the  Baron.  "  The  men  who  make,  or  take,  the 
lives  of  poets  and  scholars,  always  complain  that  these 
lives  are  barren  of  incidents.  Hardly  a  literary  biography 
begins  without  some  such  apology,  unwisely  made.  I 
confess,  however,  that  it  is  not  made  without  some  show 
of  truth,  if  by  incidents  we  mean  only  those  startling 


A  ROMANCE.  59 

events  which  suddenly  turn  aside  the  stream  of  time,  and 
change  the  world's  history  in  an  hour.  There  is  certainly 
a  uniformity,  pleasing  or  unpleasing,  in  literary  life,  which 
for  the  most  part  makes  to-day  seem  twin-born  with  yes 
terday.  But  if  by  incidents  you  mean  events  in  the  his 
tory  of  the  human  mind,  (and  why  not  ?)  noiseless  events, 
that  do  not  scar  the  forehead  of  the  world  as  battles  do, 
yet  change  it  not  the  less,  then  surely  the  lives  of  literary 
men  are  most  eventful.  The  complaint  and  the  apology 
are  both  foolish.  I  do  not  see  why  a  successful  book  is 
not  as  great  an  event  as  a  successful  campaign  ;  only  dif 
ferent  in  kind,  and  not  easily  compared." 

"  Indeed,"  interrupted  Flemrning,  "  in  no  sense  is  the 
complaint  strictly  true,  though  at  times  apparently  so. 
Events  enough  there  are,  were  they  all  set  down.  A  life 
that  is  worth  writing  at  all  is  worth  writing  minutely. 
Besides,  all  literary  men  have  not  lived  in  silence  and  sol 
itude  ;  not  all  in  stillness,  not  all  in  shadow.  For  many 
have  lived  in  troubled  times,  in  the  rude  and  adverse  for 
tunes  of  the  state  and  age,  and  could  say,  with  Wallenstein, 

'  Our  life  was  but  a  battle  and  a  march  ; 
And,  like  the  wind's  blast,  never  resting,  homeless, 
We  stormed  across  the  war-convulsed  earth.' 

Many  such  examples  has  history  recorded, — Dante,  Cer 
vantes,  Byron,  and  others  :  men  of  iron, — men  who  have 
dared  to  breast  the  strong  breath  of  public  opinion,  and, 
like  spectre-ships,  come  sailing  right  against  the  wind. 
Others  have  been  puffed  out  by  the  first  adverse  ^wind 
f.hat  blew;  disgraced  and  sorrowful,  because  they  could 
not  please  others.  Truly  '  the  tears  live  in  an  onion,  that 
should  water  such  sorrow.'  Had  they  been  men,  they 
would  have  made  these  disappointments  their  best 


60  HYPERION, 

friends,  and  learned  from  them  the  needful  lesson  of  self- 
reliance." 

"To  confess  the  truth, "added  the  Baron,  "the  lives 
of  literary  men,  with  their  hopes  and  disappointments,  and 
quarrels  and  calamities,  present  a  melancholy  picture  of 
man's  strength  and  weakness.  On  that  very  account  the 
scholar  can  make  them  profitable  for  encouragement, 
consolation,  warning." 

"And  after  all,"  continued  Flemming,  "perhaps  the 
greatest  lesson  which  the  lives  of  literary  men  teach  us 
is  told  in  a  single  word :  Wait ! — Every  man  must 
patiently  bide  his  time.  He  must  wait.  More  particu 
larly  in  lands  like  my  native  land,  where  the  pulse  of  life 
beats  with  such  feverish  and  impatient  throbs,  is  the  les 
son  needful.  Our  national  character  wants  the  dignity 
of  repose.  We  seem  to  live  in  the  midst  of  a  battle, — 
there  is  such  a  din,  such  a  hurrying  to  and  fro.  In  the 
streets  of  a  crowded  city  it  is  difficult  to  walk  slowly.  You 
feel  the  rushing  of  the  crowd,  and  rush  with  it  onward. 
In  the  press  of  our  life  it  is  difficult  to  be  calm.  In  this 
stress  of  wind  and  tide,  all  professions  seem  to  drag  their 
anchors,  and  are  swept  out  into  the  main.  The  voices  of 
the  Present  say,  '  Come  ! '  But  the  voices  of  the  Past  say, 
*  Wait ! '  With  calm  and  solemn  footsteps  the  rising  tide 
bears  against  the  rushing  torrent  up  stream,  and  pushes 
back  the  hurrying  waters.  With  no  less  calm  and  solemn 
footsteps,  nor  less  certainty,  does  a  great  mind  bear  up 
against  public  opinion,  and  push  back  its  hurrying  stream. 
Therefore  should  every  man  wait, — should  bide  his  time. 
Not  in  listless  idleness, — not  in  useless  pastime, — not  in 
querulous  dejection, — but  in  constant,  steady,  cheerful 
endeavors,  always  willing  and  fulfilling,  and  accomplish 
ing  his  task,  that,  when  the  occasion  comes,  he  may  be 


A  ROMANCE.  Gl 

equal  to  the  occasion.  And  if  it  never  comes,  what  mat. 
ters  it?  What  matters  it  to  the  world,  whether  I,  or  you, 
or  another  man  did  such  a  deed,  or  wrote  such  a  book,  so 
be  it  the  deed  and  book  were  well  done  ?  It  is  the  part 
of  an  indiscreet  and  troublesome  ambition  to  care  too 
much  about  fame, — about  what  the  world  says  of  us  ;— to 
be  always  looking  into  the  faces  of  others  for  approval ;  to 
be  always  anxious  for  the  effect  of  what  we  do  and  say ; 
to  be  always  shouting  to  hear  the  echo  of  our  own  voices. 
If  you  look  about  you,  you  will  see  men  who  are  wearing 
life  away  in  feverish  anxiety  of  fame,  and  the  last  we  shall 
ever  hear  of  them  will  be  the  funeral  bell  that  tolls  them 
to  their  early  graves !  Unhappy  men,  and  unsuccessful ! 
because  their  purpose  is,  not  to  accomplish  well  their  task, 
but  to  clutch  the  '  trick  and  fantasy  of  fame ' ;  and  they 
go  to  their  graves  with  purposes  unaccomplished  and 
wishes  unfulfilled.  Better  for  them,  and  for  the  world 
in  their  example,  had  they  known  how  to  wait !  Believe 
me,  the  talent  of  success  is  nothing  more  than  doing  what 
you  can  do  well ;  and  doing  well  whatever  you  do, — with 
out  a  thought  of  fame.  If  it  come  at  all,  it  will  come  be 
cause  it  is  deserved,  not  because  it  is  sought  after.  And, 
moreover,  there  will  be  no  misgivings,  no  disappointment, 
no  hasty,  feverish,  exhausting  excitement." 


Thus  endeth  the  First  Book  of  Hyperion.  I  make  no 
record  of  the  winter.  Paul  Flemming  buried  himself  in 
books, — in  old,  dusty  books.  He  studied  diligently  the 
ancient  poetic  lore  of  Germany,  from  Frankish  Legends 
of  Saint  George,  and  Saxon  Rhyme-Chronicles,  and  Nibe- 
lungen-Lieds,  and  Helden-Buchs,  and  Songs  of  the  Min- 


62  HYPERION. 

nesingers  and  Meistersingers,  and  Ships  of  Fools,  and 
Reynard  the  Foxes,  and  Death-Dances,  and  Lamentations 
of  Damned  Souls,  into  the  bright,  sunny  land  of  harvests, 
where,  amid  the  golden  grain  and  the  blue  corn-flowers, 
waik  the  modern  bards,  and  sing. 


BOOK    THE    SECOND, 


CHAPTER  I. 

SPRING. 

IT  was  a  sweet  carol  which  the  Rhodian  children  sang" 
of  old  in  Spring,  bearing  in  their  hands>  from  door  to 
door,  a  swallow,  as  herald  of  the  season  : — 

"The  Swallow  is  come! 
The  Swallow  is  come  ! 
O,  fair  are  the  seasons,  and  light 
Are  the  days  that  she  brings, 
With  her  dusky  wings, 
And  her  bosom  snowy  white !  " 

A  pretty  carol,  too,  is  that  which  the  Hungarian  bojs, 
on  the  islands  of  the  Danube,  sing  to  the  returning  stork 
in  Spring : — 

"  Stork  !  Stork  !  poor  Stork  f 
Why  is  thy  foot  so  bloody  ? 
A  Turkish  boy  hath  torn  it ; 
Hungarian  boy  will  heal  it, 
With  fiddle,  fife,  and  drum." 

But  what  child  has  a  heart  to  sing  in  this  capricious 
clime  of  ours,  where  Spring  comes  sailing  in  from  the  sea, 
with  wet  and  heavy  cloud-sails,  and  the  misty  pennon  of 


64:  HYPERION. 

the  East- wind  nailed  to  the  mast?  Yet  even  here,  and 
in  the  stormy  month  of  March  even,  there  are  bright, 
warm  mornings,  when  we  open  our  windows  to  inhale 
the  balmy  air.  The  pigeons  fly  to  and  fro,  and  we  hear 
the  whirring  sound  of  wings.  Old  flies  crawl  out  of  the 
cracks,  to  sun  themselves,  and  think  it  is  Summer.  They 
die  in  their  conceit ;  and  so  do  our  hearts  within  us, 
when  the  cold  sea-breath  comes  from  the  eastern  sea,  and 
again 

"  The  driving  hail 
Upon  the  window  beats  with  icy  flail." 

The  red-flowering  maple  is  first  in  blossom,  its  beautiful 
purple  flowers  unfolding  a  fortnight  before  the  leaves. 
The  moose-wood  follows,  with  rose-colored  buds  and 
leaves  ;  and  the  dog- wood,  robed  in  the  white  of  its  own 
pure  blossoms.  Then  comes  the  sudden  rainstorm  ;  and 
the  birds  fly  to  and  fro,  and  shriek.  Where  do  they  hide 
themselves  in  such  storms?  at  what  firesides  dry  their 
feathery  cloaks?  At  the  fireside  of  the  great,  hospitable 
sun, — to-morrow,  not  before  ; — they  must  sit  in  wet  gar 
ments  until  then. 

In  all  climates  Spring  is  beautiful.  In  the  South  it  is 
intoxicating,  and  sets  a  poet  beside  himself.  The  birds 
begin  to  sing  ;  they  utter  a  few  rapturous  notes,  and  then 
wait  for  an  answer  in  the  silent  woods.  Those  green- 
coated  musicians,  the  frogs,  make  holiday  in  the  neigh 
boring  marshep.  They,  too,  belong  to  the  orchestra  of 
Nature,  whose  vast  theatre  is  again  opened,  though  the 
doors  have  been  so  long  bolted  with  icicles,  and  the 
scenery  hung  with  snow  and  frost  like  cobwebs.  This  is 
the  prelude  which  announces  the  rising  of  the  broad 
green  curtain.  Already  the  grass  shoots  forth.  The 


A  ROMANCE.  65 

waters  leap  Avith  thrilling  pulse  through  the  veins  of  the 
earth ;  the  sup  through  the  veins  of  the  plants  and  trees  ; 
and  the  blood  through  the  veins  of  man.  What  a  thrill 
of  delight  in  Spring-time  !  What  a  joy  in  being  and 
moving !  Men  are  at  work  in  gardens ;  and  in  the  air 
there  is  an  odor  of  the  fresh  earth.  The  leaf-buds  begin 
to  swell  and  blush.  The  white  blossoms  of  the  cherry 
hang  upon  the  boughs  like  snow-flakes ;  and  erelong  our 
next-door  neighbors  will  be  completely  hidden  from  us  by 
the  dense  green  foliage.  The  Mayflowers  open  their  soft 
blue  eyes.  Children  are  let  loose  in  the  fields  and  gar 
dens.  They  hold  buttercups  under  each  other's  chins,  to 
see  if  they  love  butter.  And  the  little  girls  adorn  them 
selves  with  chains  and  curls  of  dandelions  ;  pull  out  the 
yellow  leaves,  to  see  if  the  school-boy  loves  them,  and 
blow  the  down  from  the  leafless  stalk,  to  find  out  if  their 
mothers  want  them  at  home. 

And  at  night  so  cloudless  and  so  still !  Not  a  voice  of 
living  thing, — not  a  whisper  of  leaf  or  waving  bough, — 
not  a  breath  of  wind, — not  a  sound  upon  the  earth  nor  in 
the  air  !  And  overhead  bends  the  blue  sky,  dewy  and 
soft,  and  radiant  with  innumerable  stars,  like  the  in 
verted  bell  of  some  blue  flower,  sprinkled  with  golden 
dust,  and  breathing  fragrance.  Or  if  the  heavens  are 
overcast,  it  is  no  wild  storm  of  wind  and  rain,  but  clouds 
that  melt  and  fall  in  showers.  One  does  not  wish  to  sleep, 
but  lies  awake  to  hear  the  pleasant  sound  of  the  drop 
ping  rain. 

It  was  thus  the  Spring  began  in  Heidelberg, 


CHAPTER  II. 

A   COLLOQUY. 

"    A    ND  what  think  you  of  Tiedge's  Urania?"  said 
-C^L  the  Baron,  smiling,  as  Paul  Flemming  closed  tho 
book,  and  laid  it  upon  the  table. 

"I  think/'  said  Flemming,  "that  it  is  very  much  like 
Jean  Paul's  grandfather, — in  the  highest  degree  poor  and 
pious." 

"Bravo!"  exclaimed  the  Baron.  "That  is  the  best 
criticism  I  have  heard  upon  the  book.  For  my  part,  I 
dislike  it  as  much  as  Goethe  did.  It  was  once  very  pop 
ular,  and  lay  about  in  every  parlor  and  bedroom.  This 
annoyed  the  old  gentleman  exceedingly;  and  I  do  not 
wonder  at  it.  He  complains  that  at  one  time  nothing 
was  sung  or  said  but  this  Urania.  He  believed  in  im 
mortality ;  but  wished  to  cherish  his  belief  in  quietniss. 
He  once  told  a  friend  of  his,  that  he  had,  however, 
learned  one  thing  from  all  this  talk  about  Ticdgc  and  his 
Urania ;  which  was,  that  the  saints,  as  well  as  the  nobil 
ity,  constitute  an  aristocracy.  He  said  he  found  stupid 
women  who  were  proud  because  they  believed  in  Immor 
tality  with  Tiedge,  and  had  to  submit  himself  to  not  a 
few  mysterious  catechizings  and  tea-table  lectures  on  this 
point ;  and  that  he  cut  them  short  by  saying,  that  he 
had  no  objection  whatever  to  enter .  into  another  state  of 
existence  hereafter,  but  prayed  only  that  he  might  b« 
spared  the  honor  of  meeting  there  any  of  those  who  had 
66 


A  ROMANCE.  67 

believed  in  it  here, — for,  if  he  did,  the  saints  would  flock 
around  him  on  all  sides,  exclaiming,  '  Were  we  not  in 
the  right  ?  Did  we  not  tell  you  so  ?  Has  it  not  all 
turned  out  just  as  we  said  ?  And  with  such  a  conceited 
clatter  in  his  ears,  he  thought  that  before  the  end  of  six 
months  he  might  die  of  ennui  in  Heaven  itself  ! ' " 

"  How  shocked  the  good  old  ladies  must  have  been  ! " 
said  Flemming. 

"No  doubt,  their  nerves  suffered  a  little;  but  the 
young  ladies  loved  him  all  the  better  for  being  witty  and 
wicked, — and  thought,  if  they  only  could  marry  him, 
how  they  could  reform  him." 

"  Bettina  Brentano,  for  instance." 

"0  no  !  That  happened  long  afterwards.  Goethe 
was  then  a  silver-haired  old  man  of  sixty.  She  had  never 
seen  him,  and  knew  him  only  by  his  writings  :  a  roman 
tic  girl  of  seventeen." 

"  And  yet  much  in  love  with  the  sexagenarian.  And 
surely,  a  more  wild,  fantastic,  and,  excuse  me,  German 
passion  never  sprang  up  in  woman's  breast.  She  was  a 
flower  that  worshipped  the  sun." 

"  She  afterwards  married  Achim  von  Arnim,  and  is 
now  a  widow.  And  not  the  least  singular  part  of  the 
affair  is,  that,  having  grown  older,  and  I  hope  colder, 
she  should  herself  publish  the  letters  which  passed  be 
tween  her  and  Goethe." 

"  Particularly  the  letter  in  which  she  describes  her  first 
visit  to  Weimar,  and  her  interview  with  the  hitherto  in 
visible  divinity  of  her  dreams.  The  old  gentleman  took 
her  upon  his  knees,  and  she  fell  asleep  with  her  head  upon 
his  shoulder.  It  reminds  me  of  Titania  and  Nick  Bot 
tom,  begging  your  pardon,  always,  for  comparing  your 
all-sided  One  to  Nick  Bottom.  Oberon  must  have  touched 


68  HYPERION, 

her  eyes  with  the  juice  of  Love-in-idleness.  However, 
this  book  of  Goethe's  Correspondence  with  a  Child  is  a 
very  singular  and  valuable  revelation  of  the  feelings 
which  he  excited  in  female  hearts.  You  say  she  after 
wards  married  Achim  von  Arnim  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  he  and  her  brother,  Clemens  Brentano, 
published  that  wondrous  book,  the  Boy's  Wonder-Horn." 

"  The  Boy's  Wonder-Horn  ! "  said  Flemming,  after  a 
short  pause,  for  the  name  seemed  to  have  thrown  him 
into  a  re  very  ; — "I  know  the  book  almost  by  heart.  Of 
all  your  German  books,  it  is  the  one  which  produces 
upon  my  imagination  the  most  wild  and  magic  influence. 
I  have  a  passion  for  ballads  ! " 

"  And  who  has  not  ?  "  said  the  Baron,  with  a  smile. 
"  They  are  the  gypsy-children  of  song,  born  under  green 
hedgerows,  in  the  leafy  lanes  and  by-paths  of  literature, 
• — in  the  genial  Summer-time." 

"  Why  do  you  say  Summer-time,  and  not  Summer  ? " 
inquired  Flemming.  "The  expression  reminds  me  of 
your  old  Minnesingers ; — of  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen, 
and  Walter  von  der  Vogelweide,  and  Count  Kraft  von 
Toggenburg,  and  your  own  ancestor,  I  dare  say,  Burk- 
hart  von  Hohenfels.  They  were  always  singing  of  the 
gentle  Summer-time.  They  seemed  to  have  lived  poetry, 
as  well  as  sung  it ;  like  the  birds  who  make  their  mar 
riage-beds  in  the  voluptuous  trees." 

"  Is  that  from  Shakspere  ?  " 

"No  ;  from  Lope  de  Vega." 

"  You  are  deeply  read  in  the  lore  of  antiquity,  and  the 
Aubades  and  Watch-Songs  of  the  old  Minnesingers. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  shoemaker  poets  that  came 
after  them, — with  their  guilds  and  singing  schools  ?  It 
makes  me  laugh  to  think  how  the  great  German  Helicon, 


A  HOMANC&  69 

shrunk  to  a  rivulet,  goc-e  bubbling  and  gurgling  over  the 
pebbly  names  of  Z  winder,  Wurgendrussel,  Buchenlin, 
Hellfire,  Old  Stoll,  Young  StoU,  Strong  Bopp,  Dang 
Brotscheim,  Batt  Spiegel,  Peter  Pfort,  and  Martin 
Gumpel.  And  then  the  Corporation  of  the  Twelve 
Wise  Masters,  with  their  stumpfe-reime  and  klingende- 
reime,  and  their  Hans  Tindeisen's  rosemary-weise,  and 
Joseph  Schmierer's  flowery-paradise-weise,  and  Frauen- 
lob's  yellow-weise,  and  blue-weise,  and  frog-weise,  and 
looking-glass-weise  ! " 

"  0,  I  entreat  you,"  exclaimed  Flemming,  laughing, 
"  do  not  call  those  men  poets  !  You  transport  me  to 
quaint  old  Nuremberg,  and  I  see  Hans  Sachs  making 
shoes,  and  Hans  Folz  shaving  the  burgomaster." 

"  By  the  way,"  interrupted  the  Baron,  "  did  you  ever 
read  Hoffmann's  beautiful  story  of  Master  Martin,  the 
Cooper  of  Nuremburg  ?  I  will  read  it  to  you  this  veiy 
night.  It  is  the  most  delightful  picture  of  that  age  which 
you  can  conceive.  But  look  !  the  sun  has  already  set 
behind  the  Alsatian  hills.  Let  us  go  up  to  the  castle 
and  look  for  the  ghost  in  Prince  Ruprecht's  tower.  0 
what  a  glorious  sunset  ! " 

Flemming  looked  at  the  evening  sky  and  a  shade  of 
sadness  stole  over  his  countenance.  He  told  not  to  his 
friend  the  sorrow  with  which  his  heart  was  heavy,  but 
kept  it  for  himself  alone.  He  knew  that  the  time,  which 
comes  to  all  men, — the  time  to  suffer  and  be  silent, — had 
come  to  him  likewise,  and  he  spake  no  word.  0,  well 
has  it  been  said,  that  there  is  no  grief  like  the  grief  which 
does  not  speak  1 


CHAPTEE  in. 

OWL-TOWEKS. 

f*  rriHEEE  sits  the  old  Fran  Himmelauen,  perched  up 

-L  in  her  owl-tower,"  said  the  Baron  to  Flemming, 
as  they  passed  along  the  Hauptstrasse.  "She  looks 
down  through  her  round-eyed  spectacles  from  her  nest  up 
there,  and  watches  every  one  that  goes  by.  I  wonder 
what  mischief  she  is  hatching  now.  Do  you  know  she 
has  nearly  ruined  your  character  in  town  ?  She  says  you 
have  a  rakish  look,  because  you  carry  a  cane,  and  your 
hair  curls.  Your  gloves,  also,  are  a  shade  too  light  for  a 
strictly  virtuous  man." 

"  It  is  very  kind  in  her  to  take  such  good  care  of  my 
character,  particularly  as  I  am  a  stranger  in  town.  She 
is  doubtless  learned  in  the  Clothes-Philosophy." 

"  And  ignorant  of  everything  else.  She  asked  a  friend 
of  mine,  the  other  day,  whether  Christ  was  a  Catholic  or 
a  Protestant." 

"  That  is  really  too  absurd." 

"  Not  too  absurd  to  be  true.  And,  ignorant  as  she  is, 
she  contrives  to  do  a  good  deal  of  mischief  in  the  course 
of  a  year.  Why,  the  ladies  already  call  you  Wilhelm 
Meister." 

"  They  are  at  liberty  to  call  me  what  they  please.  But 
you,  who  know  me  better,  know  that  I  am  something 
more  than  they  would  imply  by  the  name." 

"She  sajs,  moreover,  that  the  American  ladiea  sii 


A  ROMANCE.  71 

with  their  feet  out  of  the  window,  and  have  no  pocket- 
handkerchiefs." 

"Excellent!" 

They  crossed  the  market-place,  and  went  up  beneath 
the  grand  terrace  into  the  court-yard  of  the  castle. 

"  Let  us  go  and  sit  under  the  great  linden-trees,  that 
grow  on  the  summit  of  the  Kent  Tower,"  said  Flemming. 
"  From  that  point,  as  from  a  watch-tower,  we  can  loolj 
down  into  the  garden,  and  see  the  crowd  below  us." 

"  And  amuse  ourselves,  as  old  Frau  Himmelaueiy 
does  at  her  window  in  the  Hauptstrasse,"  added  the 
Buron. 

The  keeper's  daughter  unlocked  for  them  the  door  of 
the  tower,  and,  climbing  the  steep  staircase,  they  seated 
themselves  on  a  wooden  bench  under  the  linden-trees. 

"  How  beautifully  these  trees  overgrow  the  old  tower ! 
And  see  what  a  solid  mass  of  masonry  lies  in  the  great 
fosse  down  there,  toppled  from  its  base  by  the  explosion 
of  a  mine  !  It  is  like  a  rusty  helmet  cleft  in  twain,  but 
still  crested  with  towering  plumes  !  " 

"  And  what  a  motley  crowd  in  the  garden  !  Philisters 
and  Sons  of  the  Muses  !  And  there  goes  the  venerable 
Thibaut,  taking  his  evening  stroll.  Do  you  see  him  there, 
with  his  silver  hair  flowing  over  his  shoulders,  and  that 
friendly  face  which  has  for  so  many  years  pored  over  the 
Pandects  ?  I  assure  you  he  inspires  me  with  awe.  And 
yet  he  is  a  merry  old  man,  and  loves  his  joke,  particularly 
at  the  expense  of  Moses  and  other  ancient  law-givers." 

Here  their  attention  was  diverted  by  a  wild-looking 
person,  who  passed  with  long  strides  under  the  archwaj 
in  the  fosse,  right  beneath  them,  and  disappeared  among 
the  bushes.  He  was  ill-dressed,  his  hair  flying  in  th» 
wind,  his  movements  hurried  and  nervous,  and  the  ex- 


72  HYPERION, 

pression  of  his  broad  countenance,  wild,  strange,  and 
earnest. 

"  Who  can  that  be  ?  "  asked  Flemming.  "  He  strides 
away  indignantly,  like  one  of  Ossian's  ghosts  ! " 

"A  great  philosopher,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten. 
Truly,  a  strange  owl ! " 

"  He  looks  like  a  lion  with  a  hat  on." 

"  He  is  a  mystic,  who  reads  Schubert's  History  of  the 
Soul,  and  lives,  for  the  most  part,  in  the  clouds  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  To  him  the  spirit-world  is  still  open.  He 
believes  in  the  transmigration  of  souls  ;  and  I  dare  say  is 
now  following  the  spirit  of  some  departed  friend,  who 
has  taken  the  form  of  yonder  pigeon." 

"  "What  a  strange  hallucination  !  He  lives,  I  suppose, 
in  the  land  of  cloud-shadows.  And,  as  St.  Thomas  Aqui 
nas  was  said  to  be  lifted  up  from  the  ground  by  the  fervor 
of  his  prayers,  so,  no  doubt,  is  he  by  the  fervor  of  his 
visions." 

"  He  certainly  appears  to  neglect  all  sublunary  things  ; 
and,  to  judge  from  certain  appearances,  since  you  seem 
fond  of  holy  similitudes,  one  would  say,  that,  like  St. 
Serapion  the  Sindonite,  he  had  but  one  shirt.  Yet  what 
cares  he  ?  he  lives  in  that  poetic  dream-land  of  his 
thoughts,  and  clothes  his  dream-children  in  poetry." 

"  He  is  a  poet,  then,  as  well  as  a  philosopher  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  a  poet  who  never  writes  a  line.  There  is 
nothing  in  nature  to  which  his  imagination  does  not  give 
a  poetic  hue.  But  the  power  to  make  others  see  these 
objects  in  the  same  poetic  light  is  wanting.  Still  he  is  a 
man  of  fine  powers  and  feelings  ;  for  next  to  being  a  great 
poet  is  the  power  of  understanding  one, — of  finding  one's 
gelf  in  him,  as  we  Germans  say." 

Three  figures,  dressed  in  black,  now  came  from  one  ol 


A  ROMANCE.  73 

the  green  alleys,  and  stopped  on  the  brink  of  a  fountain 
that  was  playing  among  the  gay  flowers  in  the  garden. 
The  eldest  of  the  three  was  a  lady  in  that  season  of  life 
when  the  early  autumn  gives  to  the  summer  leaves  a 
warmer  glow,  yet  fades  them  not.  Though  the  mother 
of  many  children,  she  was  still  beautiful  ; — resembling 
those  trees  which  blossom  in  October,  when  the  leaves  are 
changing,  and  whose  fruit  and  blossom  are  on  the  branch 
at  once.  At  her  side  was  a  girl  of  some  sixteen  years,  who 
seemed  to  lean  upon  her  arm  for  support.  Her  figure  was 
slight ;  her  countenance  beautiful,  though  deadly  white  • 
and  her  meek  eyes  like  the  flower  of  the  nightshade,  pale 
and  blue,  but  sending  forth  golden  rays.  They  were  at 
tended  by  a  tall  youth  of  foreign  aspect,  who  seemed  a 
young  Antinotis,  with  a  mustache  and  a  nose  a  la  Kosci- 
usko.  In  other  respects  a  perfect  hero  of  romance. 

"  Unless  mine  eyes  deceive  me,"  said  the  Baron,  "  there 
is  the  Frau  von  Ilmenau,  with  her  pale  daughter  Emma, 
and  that  eternal  Polish  count.  He  is  always  hovering 
about  them,  playing  the  unhappy  exile,  merely  to  excite 
that  poor  girl's  sympathies  ;  and  as  wretched  as  genius 
and  wantonness  can  make  him." 

"Why,  he  is  already  married,  you  know,"  replied  Flem- 
ming.  "  And  his  wife  is  young  and  beautiful." 

"  That  does  not  prevent  him  from  being  in  love  with 
some  one  else.  That  question  was  decided  in  the  Courts 
of  Love  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Accordingly  he  has  sent  his 
fair  wife  to  "Warsaw.  But  how  pale  the  poor  child  looks  !  " 

"  She  has  just  recovered  from  severe  illness.  In  the 
winter,  you  know,  it  was  thought  she  would  not  live  from 
hour  to  hour." 

"  And  she  has  hardly  recovered  from  that  disease,  be 
fore  she  seems  threatened  with  a  worse  one  ;  namely,  a 


74  HYPERION, 

hopeless  passion.     However,  people  do  not  die  of  love 
now-a-days." 

"  Seldom,  perhaps,"  said  Flemming.  "  And  yet  it  is 
folly  to  pretend  that  one  ever  wholly  recovers  from  a  dis 
appointed  passion.  Such  wounds  always  leave  a  scar. 
There  are  faces  I  can  never  look  upon  without  emotion. 
There  are  names  I  can  never  hear  spoken  without  almost 
starting." 

"  But  whom  have  we  here  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  French  poet  Quinet,  with  his  sweet  Ger 
man  wife ;  one  of  the  most  interesting  women  I  ever 
knew.  He  is  the  author  of  a  very  wild  Mystery,  or 
dramatic  prose-poem,  in  which  the  Ocean,  Mont  Blanc, 
and  the  Cathedral  of  Strasburg  have  parts  to  play ;  and 
the  saints  on  the  stained  windows  of  the  minster  speak, 
and  the  statues  and  dead  kings  enact  the  Dance  of 
Death.  It  is  entitled  Ahasuerus,  or  the  Wandering 
Jew." 

"  Or,  as  the  Danes  would  translate  it,  the  Shoemaker 
of  Jerusalem.  That  would  be  a  still  more  fantastic  title 
for  his  fantastic  book.  You  know  I  am  no  great  ad 
mirer  of  the  modern  French  school  of  writers.  The  tales 
of  Paul  de  Kock,  who  is,  I  believe  the  most  popular  of 
all,  seem  to  me  like  obscene  stories  told  at  dinner-tables 
after  the  ladies  have  retired.  It  has  been  well  said  of 
him,  that  he  is  not  only  populaire,  but  populacier  ;  and 
equally  well  said  of  George  Sand  and  Victor  Hugo,  that 
their  works  stand  like  fortifications,  well  built  and  well 
supplied  with  warlike  munitions  ;  but  ineffectual  against 
the  Grand  Army  of  God,  which  marches  onward,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  In  surveying  a  national  litera 
ture,  the  point  you  must  start  from  is  national  character. 
That  lots  you  into  many  a  secret ;  as  for  example,  Paul 


A  ROMANCE.  \ 

de  Kock's  popularity.  The  most  prominent  trait  in  thfl 
French  character  is  love  of  amusement  and  excitement , 
and " 

"  I  should  say,  rather,  the  fear  of  ennui,"  interrupted 
Flemming.  "  One  of  their  own  writers  has  said,  with  a 
great  deal  of  truth,  that  the  gentry  of  France  rush  into 
Paris  to  escape  ennui,  as,  in  the  noble  days  of  chivalry, 
the  defenceless  inhabitants  of  the  champaign  fled  into  the 
castles  at  the  approach  of  some  plundering  knight  or 
lawless  Baron  :  forsaking  the  inspired  twilight  of  their 
native  groves,  for  the  luxurious  shades  of  the  royal  gar 
dens.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ? " 

The  Baron  replied,  with  a  smile  : — ' 

"  There  is  only  one  Paris ;  and  out  of  Paris  there  is 
no  salvation  for  decent  people." 

Thus  conversing  of  many  things  sat  the  two  friends 
under  the  linden-trees  on  the  Rent-Tower,  till  gradually 
the  crowd  disappeared  from  the  garden,  and  the  objects 
around  them  grew  indistinct,  in  the  fading  twilight.  Be 
tween  them  and  the  amber-colored  western  sky,  the  dense 
foliage  of  the  tr«es  looked  heavy  and  hard  as  if  cast  in 
bronze  ;  and  already  the  evening  stars  hung  like  silver 
lamps  in  the  towering  branches  of  that  Tree  of  Life, 
brought  more  than  two  centuries  ago  from  its  primeval 
paradise  in  America,  to  beautify  the  gardens  of  the 
Palatinate. 

"I  take  a  mournful  pleasure  in  gazing  at  that  tree," 
said  Flemming,  as  they  rose  to  depart.  "  It  stands  there 
so  straight  and  tall,  with  iron  bands  around  its  noble 
trunk  and  limbs,  in  silent  majesty,  or  whispering  only 
in  its  native  tongue,  and  freighting  the  homeward  wind 
with  sighs  !  It  reminds  me  of  some  captive  monarch  of 
a  savage  tribe,  brought  over  the  vast  ocean  for  a  show, 


7s  STPERION. 

and  chained  in  the  public  market-place  of  the  city,  dis 
dainfully  silent,  or  breathing  only  in  melancholy  accents 
a  prayer  for  his  native  forest,  a  longing  to  be  free." 

"Magnificent!"  cried  the  Baron.  "I  always  experi 
ence  something  of  the  same  feeling  when  I  walk  through 
a  conservatory.  The  luxuriant  plants  of  the  tropics — 
those  illustrious  exotics,  with  their  gorgeous  flamingo- 
colored  blossoms,  and  great  flapping  leaves,  like  elephants' 
ears  have  a  singular  working  upon  my  imagination,  and  re 
mind  me  of  a  menagerie  and  wild  beasts  kept  in  cages. 
But  your  illustration  is  finer  ; — indeed,  a  grand  figure 
Put  it  down  for  an  epic  poem." 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

A   BEER-SCAKDAL. 

ON  their  way  homeward,  Flemming  and  the  Baron 
passed  through  a  narrow  lane,  in  which  was  a  well- 
known  Studenten-Kneipe.  At  the  door  stood  a  young 
man,  whom  the  Baron  at  once  recognized  as  his  friend 
Von  Kleist.  He  was  a  student ;  and  universally  acknowl 
edged,  among  his  young  acquaintance,  as  a  "  devilish 
handsome  fellow,"  notwithstanding  a  tremendous  scar  on 
his  cheek,  and  a  cream-colored  mustache  as  soft  as  the 
silk  of  Indian  corn.  In  short,  he  was  a  renowner,  and  a 
duellist. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  Von  Kleist  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Baron  !  Is  it  you  ?  Come  in  ;  come  in. 
You  shall  see  some  sport.  A  Fox-Commerce  is  on  foot, 
and  a  regular  Beer-Scandal." 

"  Shall  we  go  in,  Flemming  ?" 

"  Certainly.  I  should  like  to  see  how  these  things  are 
managed  in  Heidelberg.  You  are  a  baron,  and  I  am  a 
stranger.  It  is  of  no  consequence  what  you  and  I  do, 
as  the  king's  fool  Angeli  said  to  the  poet  Bautru,  urging 
him  to  put  on  his  hat  at  the  royal  dinner-table." 

William  Lilly,  the  Astrologer,  says,  in  his  Autobiog 
raphy,  that,  when  he  was  committed  to  the  guard-room 
in  White  Hall,  he  thought  himself  in  hell ;  for  "  some 
were  sleeping,  others  swearing,  others  smoking  tobacco ; 
and  in  the  chimney  of  the  room  there  were  two  bushels  of 

77 


broken  tobacco-pipes,  and  almost  half  a  load  of  ashes." 
What  he  would  have  thought,  if  he  had  peeped  into  this 
Heidelberg  Studenten-Kneipe,  I  know  not.  He  certainly 
would  not  have  thought  himself  in  heaven  ;  unless  it  were 
a  Scandinavian  heaven.  The  windows  were  open ;  and 
yet  so  dense  were  the  atmosphere  with  the  smoke  of  tobacco 
and  the  fumes  of  beer,  that  the  tallow  candles  burnt  but 
dimly.  A  crowd  of  students  were  sitting  at  three  long 
tables,  in  the  large  hall ;  a  medley  of  fellows,  known  at 
German  universities  under  the  cant  names  of  Old-Ones, 
Mossy-Heads,  Princes  of  Twilight,  and  Pomatum-Stal 
lions.  They  were  smoking,  drinking,  singing,  screaming, 
and  discussing  the  great  Laws  of  the  Broad-Stone  and  the 
Gutter.  They  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  likewise,  about 
Besens,  and  Zobels,  and  Poussades  ;  and,  if  they  had 
been  charged  for  the  noise  they  made,  as  travellers  used 
to  be  in  the  old  Dutch  taverns,  they  would  have  a  longer 
bill  to  pay  for  that  than  for  their  beer. 

In  a  large  arm-chair,  upon  the  middle  table,  sat  one  of 
those  distinguished  individuals  known  among  German 
students  as  a  Senior,  or  Leader  of  a  Landsmannschaft.  He 
was  booted  and  spurred,  and  wore  a  very  small  crimson 
cap,  and  a  very  tight  blue  jacket,  and  very  long  hair,  and 
a  very  dirty  shirt.  He  was  President  of  the  night ;  and, 
as  Flemming  entered  the  hall  with  the  Baron  and  his 
friend,  striking  upon  the  table  with  a  mighty  broadsword, 
he  cried  in  a  loud  voice  : — 

"Silentium!" 

At  the  same  moment,  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall  was 
thrown  open,  and  a  procession  of  new-comers,  or  Nasty- 
Foxes,  as  they  are  called  in  the  college  dialect,  entered 
two  by  two,  looking  wild,  and  green,  and  foolish.  As 
they  came  forward,  they  were  obliged  to  pass  under  a  pair 


A  ROMANCE.  0 

of  naked  swords,  held  crosswise  by  two  Old-Ones,  who, 
with  pieces  of  burnt  cork,  made  an  enormous  pair  of  mus 
taches  on  the  smooth  rosy  cheeks  of  each,  as  he  passed 
beneath  this  arch  of  triumph.  While  the  procession  was 
entering  the  hall,  the  President  lifted  up  his  voice  again, 
and  "^gan  to  sing  the  well-known  Fox-song,  in  the  chorus 
nf  which  all  present  joined  lustily  : 

What  comes  there  from  the  hill  ? 
What  comes  there  from  the  hill? 
What  comes  there  from  the  leathery  hill  ? 

Ha !  Ha  ! 

Leathery  hill  ! 
What  comes  there  from  the  hill  ? 

It  is  a  postilion  1 
It  is  a  postilion  ! 
It  is  a  leathery  postilion  t 

Ha  !  Ha  ! 

Postilion ! 
ft  is  a  postilion  I 

What  brings  the  postilion  ? 
What  brings  the  postilion  ? 
What  brings  the  leathery  postilion  t 

Ha  !  Ha  ! 

Postilion  I 
What  brings  the  postilion  ? 


He  bringeth  us  a  Fox  I 

He  bringeth  us  a  Fox  ! 

He  bringeth  us  a  leathery  Fox  I 

Ha  !  Ha  ! 

Leathery  Fox  I 
He  briugeth  us  a  Fox  t 


HYPERION, 

Your  servant,  Masters  mine  I 
Tour  servant,  Masters  mine  1 
Your  servant,  much-honored  Masters  mi««  I 

Ha  1  Ha  1 

Much-honored  Masters  mine  I 
Your  servant,  Masters  mine  I 

How  does  the  Herr  Papa  ? 
How  does  the  Herr  Papa  ? 
How  does  the  leathery  Herr  Papa  ? 

Ha !  Ha  ! 

Herr  Papa  ! 
How  does  the  Herr  Papa  ? 

He  reads  in  Cicero  ! 
He  reads  in  Cicero  ! 
He  reads  in  leathery  Cicero  ! 

Ha !  Ha ! 

Cicero  ! 
He  reads  in  Cicero  I 

How  does  the  Frau  Mamma  ? 
How  does  the  Frau  Mamma  ? 
How  does  the  leathery  Frau  Mamma  ? 

Ha  !  Ha  ! 

Frau  Mamma  ! 
How  does  the  Frau  Mamma  ? 

She  makes  the  Papa  tea  1 
She  makes  the  Papa  tea  ! 
She  makes  the  Papa  leathery  t*»  ! 

Ha  !  Ha  I 

Leathery  tea  ! 
She  makes  the  Papa  tea  I 


A  ROMANCE.  81 

How  does  the  leathery  Mamsell  Soeur  ? 

Ha  !  Ha ! 

Mamsell  Soeur  1 
How  does  the  Mamsell  So3ur  ? 

She  knits  the  Papa  socks  I 
She  knits  the  Papa  socks  ! 
She  knits  the  Papa  leathery  socks  I 

Ha  !  Ha  ! 

Leathery  socks  I 
She  knits  the  Papa  socks  ! 

How  does  the  Herr  Rector  ? 
How  does  the  Herr  Rector  ? 
How  does  the  leathery  Herr  Rector  t 

Ha  !  Ha  ! 

Herr  Rector  I 
How  does  the  Herr  Rector  ? 

He  calls  the  scholar,  Boy  I 
He  calls  the  scholar,  Boy! 
He  calls  the  scholar,  leathery  Boy! 

Ha  !  Ha  ! 

Leathery  Boy  I 
He  calls  the  scholar,  Boy! 

And  smokes  the  Pox  tobacco ! 
And  smokes  the  Fox  tobacco  ! 
And  smokes  the  leathery  Fox  tobaco*  t 

Ha  !  Ha  ! 

Fox  tobacco  I 
And  smokes  the  Fox  tobacco ! 

A  little,  Masters  mine  ! 
A  little,  Masters  mine  ! 
A  little,  much-honored  Masters  miiM  t 

Ha  !  Ha ! 

Much-honored  Masters  mine  I 
A  little,  masters  mine  1 


82  HYPERION, 

Then  let  him  fill  a  pipe  ! 
Then  let  him  fill  a  pipe  ! 
Then  let  him  fill  a  leathery  pipe  ', 

Ha  !  Ha  I 

Leathery  pipe  I 
Then  let  him  fill  a  pipe  1 

O  Lord  !  it  makes  me  sick  1 
0  Lord  I  it  makes  me  sick  ! 
0  Lord  !  it  makes  me  leathery  tick  1 

Ha  !  Ha  t 

Leathery  sick  1 
0  Lord  1  it  makes  me  sick  I 

Then  let  him  throw  it  off  I 
Then  let  him  throw  it  off  ! 
Then  let  him  throw  it  leathery  off  ! 

Ha!  Ha! 

Leathery  off  I 
Then  let  him  throw  it  off  I 

Now  I  again  am  well ! 
Now  he  again  is  well ! 
Now  I  again  am  leathery  well ! 

Ha  1  Ha  ! 

Leathery  well  I 
How  I  again  am  well  I 

So  grows  the  Fox  a  Bursch  I 
So  grows  the  Fox  a  Bursch  ! 
So  grows  the  leathery  Fox  a  Butach  ! 

Ha  !  Ha ! 

Fox  a  Bursch ! 
So  grows  the  Fox  a  Bursch  J 

At  length  the  song  was  finished.  Meanwhile  large 
tufts  and  strips  of  paper  had  been  twisted  into  the  hair 
of  the  Branders,  as  those  are  called  who  have  been  already 
one  semestre  at  the  University,  and  then  at  a  given  signal 


A  ROMANCE.  83 

«rcre  get  on  fire,  and  the  Branders  rode  round  the  table 
on  sticks  amid  roars  of  laughter.  When  this  ceremony 
was  completed,  the  President  rose  from  his  chair  and  in  a 
solemn  voice  pronounced  a  long  discourse,  in  which  old 
college  jokes  were  mingled  with  much  parental  advice  to 
young  men  on  entering  life,  and  the  whole  was  profusely 
garnished  with  select  passages  from  the  Old  Testament. 
Then  they  all  seated  themselves  at  the  table  and  the 
heavy  beer-drinking  set  in,  as  among  the  Gods  and  He 
roes  of  the  old  Northern  mythology. 

"  Brander  !  Brander  ! "  screamed  a  youth  whose  face 
was  hot  and  flushed  with  supper  and  with  beer;  "Bran 
der,  I  say  !  Thou  art  a  Doctor  !  No, — a  Pope  ; — thou 
art  a  Pope,  by  —  ! " 

These  words  were  addressed  to  a  pale,  quiet-looking 
person,  who  sat  opposite,  and  was  busy  in  making  a 
wretched  shaved  poodle  sit  on  his  hind  legs  in  a  chair,  by 
his  master's  side,  and  hold  a  short  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
— a  performance  to  which  the  poodle  seemed  nowise  in 
clined. 

"  Thou  art  challenged ! "  replied  the  pale  student, 
turning  from  his  dog,  who  dropped  the  pipe  from  his 
mouth,  and  leaped  under  the  table. 

Seconds  were  chosen  on  the  spot ;  and  the  arms  or 
dered  ;  namely,  six  mighty  goblets,  or  Bassglaser,  filled 
to  the  brim  with  foaming  beer.  Three  were  placed  be 
fore  each  duellist. 

"  Take  your  weapons  ! "  cried  one  of  the  seconds,  and 
«3ch  of  the  combatants  seized  a  goblet  in  his  hand. 

"  Strike  ! " 

And  the  glasses  rang  with  a  salutation  like  the  crossing 
of  swords. 

"Settol" 


84  HYPERION, 

Each  set  the  goblet  to  his  lips. 

"Out!" 

And  each  poured  the  contents  down  his  throat,  as  if  h« 
were  pouring  them  through  a  tunnel  into  a  beer-barrel. 
The  other  two  glasses  followed  in  quick  succession,  hardly 
a  long  breath  drawn  between.  The  pale  student  was  vic 
torious.  He  was  first  to  drain  the  third  goblet.  He  held 
it  for  a  moment  inverted,  to  let  the  last  drops  fall  out, 
and  then,  placing  it  quietly  on  the  table,  looked  his  an 
tagonist  in  the  face,  and  said  : — 

"  Hit ! " 

Then,  with  the  greatest  coolness,  he  looked  under  the 
table,  and  whistled  for  his  dog.  His  antagonist  stopped 
midway  in  his  third  glass.  Every  vein  in  his  forehead 
seemed  bursting ;  his  eyes  were  wild  and  bloodshot,  his 
hand  gradually  loosened  its  hold  upon  the  taUe,  and  he 
sank  and  rolled  together  like  a  sheet  of  lead.  He  was 
drunk. 

At  this  moment  a  majestic  figure  came  stalking  down 
the  table,  ghost-like,  through  the  dim,  smoky  atmos 
phere.  His  coat  was  off,  his  neck  bare,  his  hair  wild,  his 
eyes  wide  open,  and  looking  right  before  him,  as  if  he 
saw  some  beckoning  hand  in  the  air,  that  others  could 
not  see.  His  left  hand  was  upon  his  hip,  and  in  his 
right  he  held  a  drawn  sword  extended,  and  pointing 
downward.  Regardless  of  every  one,  erect,  and  with  a 
martial  stride,  he  marched  directly  along  the  centre  of  the 
table,  crushing  glasses  and  overthrowing  bottles  at  every 
step.  The  students  shrunk  back  at  his  approach ;  till 
at  length  one  more  drunk,  or  more  courageous,  than  the 
rest,  dashed  a  glass  full  of  beer  into  his  face.  A  general 
tumult  ensued,  and  the  student  with  the  sword  leaped 
to  the  floor.  It  was  Von  Kleist.  He  was  renowning  it. 


A  ROMANCE.  85 

In  the  midst  of  the  uproar  could  be  distinguished  the 
offensive  words  : — 

"  Arrogant !  Absurd  !  Impertinent !  Dummer  Junge  !  *' 
Von  Kleist  went  home  that  night  with  no  less  than 
gix  duels  on  his  hands.  He  fought  them  all  out  in  as 
many  days  ;  and  came  off  with  only  a  gash  through  his 
upper  lip  and  another  through  his  right  eyelid  from  a 
dexterous  Suabian  Schlager. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHITE  LADY'S  SLIPPER  AND  THE  PASSION-FLOWED 

r  I  lHAT  night  Emma  of  Ilmenau  went  to  her  chamber 
-*-  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  her  dusky  eyes  were  troubled 
with  tears.  She  was  one  of  those  gentle  beings  who  seem 
created  only  to  love  and  to  be  loved.  A  shade  of  melan 
choly  softened  her  character.  She  shunned  the  glare  of 
daylight  and  of  society,  and  wished  to  be  alone.  Like 
the  evening  primrose,  her  heart  opened  only  after  sun 
set  ;  but  bloomed  through  the  dark  night  with  sweet  fra 
grance.  Her  mother,  on  the  contrary,  flaunted  in  the 
garish  light  of  society.  There  was  no  sympathy  between 
them.  Their  souls  never  approached,  never  understood 
each  other,  and  words  were  often-  spoken  which  wounded 
deeply.  And  therefore  Emma  of  Ilmenau  went  to  her 
chamber  that  night  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

She  was  followed  by  her  French  chamber-maid,  Made 
leine,  a  native  of  Strassburg,  who  had  grown  old  in  the 
family.  In  her  youth  she  had  been  poor, — and  virtuous, 
because  she  had  never  been  tempted ;  and  now  that 
she  had  grown  old,  and  seen  no  immediate  reward 
for  her  virtue,  as  is  usual  with  weak  minds,  she  de 
spaired  of  Providence,  and  regretted  she  had  never  been 
tempted.  Whilst  this  unfortunate  personage  was  lighting 
the  wax  tapers  on  the  toilet,  and  drawing  the  bed-cur 
tains,  and  tattling  about  the  room,  Emma  threw  her 
self  into  an  arm-chair,  and,  crossing  her  hands  in  her 


A  ROMANCE.  37 

lap,  and  letting  her  head  fall  upon  her  bosom,  seemed 
lost  in  a  dream. 

"  Why  have  these  gentle  feelings  been  given  me?"  said 
she  in  her  heart.  "  Why  have  I  been  born  with  all  these 
warm  affections,  these  ardent  longings  after  what  is  good, 
if  they  lead  only  to  sorrow  and  disappointment  ?  I  would 
love  some  one, — love  him  once  and  forever  ; — devote  my 
self  to  him  alone, — live  for  him, — die  for  him, — exist 
alone  in  him  !  But,  alas  !  in  all  this  wide  world  there  is 
none  to  love  me  as  I  would  be  loved, — none  whom  I  may 
love  as  I  am  capable  of  loving.  How  empty,  how  desolate, 
seems  the  world  about  me  !  Why  has  Heaven  given  me 
these  affections,  only  to  fall  and  fade  ?  " 

Alas  !  poor  child  !  thou  too  must  learn,  like  others, 
that  the  sublime  mystery  of  Providence  goes  on  in  si 
lence,  and  gives  no  explanation  of  itself, — no  answer  to 
our  impatient  questionings  ! 

"  Bless  me,  child,  what  ails  you  ? "  exclaimed  Made 
leine,  perceiving  that  Emma  paid  no  attention  to  her  idle 
gossip.  "  When  I  was  of  your  age " 

"  Do  not  talk  to  me  now,  good  Madeleine  Leave  me, 
I  wish  to  be  alone." 

"Well,  here  is  something."  continued  the  maid  taking 
a  billet  from  her  bosom,  "  which  I  hope  will  enliven  you. 
When  I  was  of  your  age " 

"  Hush  !  hush  ! "  said  Emma,  taking  the  billet  from 
the  hard  hand  of  Madeleine.  "  Once  more  I  beg  you, 
leave  me.  I  wish  to  be  alone." 

Madeleine  took  the  lamp  and  retired  slowly,  wishing  her 
young  mistress  many  good  nights  and  rosy  dreams. 
Emma  broke  the  seal  of  the  note.  As  she  read,  her  face 
became  deadly  pale,  and  then,  quick  as  thought,  a  crim 
son  blush  gleamed  on  her  cheek,  and  her  hands  trembled. 


gg  &7PM&lOJS't 

Tenderness,  pity,  love,  offended  pride,  the  weakness  and 
dignity  of  woman,  were  all  mingled  in  her  look,  changing 
and  passing  over  her  fine  countenance  like  cloud-shadows. 
-  She  sunk  back  in  her  chair,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands,  as  if  she  would  hide  it  from  herself  and  Heaven. 

"  He  loves  me  !  "  said  she  to  herself  ;  "loves  me  ;  and 
is  married  to  another,  whom  he  loves  not  !  and  dares  to 
tell  me  this  !  O  never, — never, — never  !  And  yet  he  is 
so  friendless  and  alone  in  this  unsympathizing  world, — 
and  an  exile  and  homeless  !  I  can  but  pity  him  ; — yet  I 
hate  him,  and  will  see  him  no  more  ! " 

This  short  revery  of  love  and  hate  was  broken  by  the 
Bound  of  a  clear,  mellow  voice,  which,  in  the  universal 
stillness  of  the  hour,  seemed  almost  like  the  voice  of  a 
spirit.  It  was  a  voice,  without  the  accompaniment  of 
any  instrument,  singing  those  sweet  lines  of  Goethe  : — 

"  Under  the  tree-tops  is  quiet  now  ! 
In  all  the  woodlands  hearest  thou 

Not  a  sound  ! 

The  little  birds  are  asleep  in  the  trees  ; 
Wait  !  wait !  and  soon,  like  these, 

Sleepest  thou  I " 

Emma  knew  the  voice,  and  started.  She  rushed  to  the 
window  to  close  it.  It  was  a  beautiful  night,  and  the 
stars  were  shining  peacefully  over  the  mountain  of  All- 
Saints.  The  sound  of  the  Neckar  was  soft  and  low,  and 
nightingales  were  singing  among  the  brown  shadows  of 
the  woods.  The  large  red  moon  shone  like  a  ruby,  in  the 
horizon's  ample  ring ;  and  golden  threads  of  light  seemed 
braided  together  with  the  rippling  current  of  the  river. 
Tall  and  spectral  stood  the  white  statues  on  the  bridge. 
The  outline  of  the  hills,  the  castle,  the  arches  of  the 


A  ROMANCE. 

bridge,  and  the  spires  and  roofs  of  the  town,  were  as 
strongly  marked  as  if  cut  out  of  pasteboard.  Amid  this 
fairy  scene,  a  little  boat  was  floating  silently  down  the 
stream.  Emma  closed  the  window  hastily,  and  drew  the 
curtains  close. 

"  I  hate  him  ;  and  yet  I  will  pray  for  him,"  said  she,  as 
she  laid  her  weary  head  upon  that  pillow,  from  which, 
but  a  few  months  before,  she  thought  she  should  never 
raise  it  again.  "  0  that  I  had  died  then  !  I  dare  not  love 
him,  but  I  will  pray  for  him  ! " 

Sweet  child  !  If  the  face  of  the  deceiver  conies  so  often 
between  thee  and  Heaven,  I  tremble  for  thy  fate  !  The 
plant  that  sprang  from  Helen's  tears  destroyed  serpents  ; 
—would  that  from  thine  might  spring  up  heart's-ease, — 
eome  plant,  at  least,  to  destroy  the  serpents  in  thy  bosom  ! 
Believe  me,  upon  the  margin  of  celestial  streams  alone 
those  simples  grow  which  cure  the  heart-ache  ! 

And  this  the  silent  stars  beheld,  looking  down  from 
heaven,  and  told  it  not  again.  This  likewise  the  Frau 
Himmelauen  beheld,  looking  from  her  chamber-window, 
and  was  not  so  discreet  as  the  silent  stars. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

GLIMPSES   INTO    CLOUD-LAND. 

"rpHEKE  are  many  things,  which,  having  no  cor» 
J-  poreal  evidence,  can  be  perceived  and  comprehended 
only  by  the  discursive  energies  of  reason.  Hence  the 
ambiguous  nature  of  matter  can  be  comprehended  only 
by  adulterated  opinion.  Matter  is  the  principle  of  all 
bodies,  and  is  stamped  with  the  impression  of  forms. 
Fire,  air,  and  water  derive  their  origin  and  principle 
from  the  scalene  triangle.  But  the  earth  was  created 
from  right-angled  triangles,  of  which  two  of  the  sides 
are  equal.  The  sphere  and  the  pyramid  contain  in  them 
selves  the  figure  of  fire  ;  but  the  octahedron  was  destined 
to  be  the  figure  of  air,  and  the  icosahedron  of  water.  The 
right-angled  isosceles  triangle  produces  from  itself  a 
square,  and  the  square  generates  from  itself  the  cube, 
which  is  the  figure  peculiar  to  earth.  But  the  figure 
of  a  beautiful  and  perfect  sphere  was  imparted  to  the  most 
beautiful  and  perfect  world,  that  it  might  be  indigent  of 
nothing,  but  contain  all  things,  embracing  and  compre 
hending  them  in  itself,  and  thus  might  be  excellent  and 
admirable,  similar  to  and  in  concord  with  itself,  ever 
moving  musically  and  melodiously.  If  I  use  a  novel  lan 
guage,  excuse  me.  As  Apuleius  says,  pardon  must  be 
granted  to  novelty  of  words,  when  it  serves  to  illustrate 
the  obscurity  of  things." 
90 


A  ROMANCE.  91 

These  words  came  from  the  lips  of  the  lion-like  philoso 
pher  who  has  been  noticed  before  in  these  pages.  He 
was  sitting  with  Flemming,  smoking  a  long  pipe.  As 
the  Baron  said,  he  was  indeed  a  strange  owl ;  for  the  owl 
is  a  grave  bird  ;  a  monk,  who  chants  midnight  mass  in 
the  great  temple  of  Nature  ; — an  anchorite, — a  pillar  saint, 
— the  very  Simeon  Stylites  of  his  neighborhood.  Such, 
likewise,  was  the  philosophical  Professor.  Solitary,  but 
with  a  mighty  current,  flowed  the  river  of  his  life,  like 
the  Nile,  without  a  tributary  stream,  and  making  fertile 
only  a  single  strip  in  the  vast  desert-  His  temperament 
had  been  in  youth  a  joyous  one  ;  and  now,  amid  all  his 
sorrows  and  privations, — for  he  had  many, — he  looked 
upon  the  world  as  a  glad,  bright,  glorious  world.  On  the 
many  joys  of  life  he  gazed  still  with  the  eyes  of  child 
hood,  from  the  far-gone  Past  upward,  trusting,  hoping  ; 
— and  upon  its  sorrows  with  the  eyes  of  age,  from  the 
distant  Future,  downward,  triumphant,  not  despairing. 
He  loved  solitude,  and  silence,  and  candle-light,  and  the 
deep  midnight.  "  For,"  said  he,  "  if  the  morning  hours 
are  the  wings  of  the  day,  I  only  fold  them  about  me  to 
sleep  more  sweetly  ;  knowing  that,  at  its  other  extremity, 
the  day,  like  the  fowls  of  the  air,  has  an  epicurean  mor 
sel, — a  parsons's  nose  ;  and  on  this  oily  midnight  my 
spirit  revels  and  is  glad." 

Such  was  the  Professor,  who  had  been  talking  in  a 
half-intelligible  strain  for  two  hours  or  more.  The  Baron 
had  fallen  fast  asleep  in  his  chair ;  but  Flemming  sat 
listening  with  excited  imagination,  and  the  Professor  con 
tinued  in  the  following  words,  which,  to  the  best  of  his 
listener's  memory,  seemed  gleaned  here  and  there  from 
Fichte's  Destiny  of  Man,  and  Schubert's  History  of  the 
Soul. 


91  HYPERION, 

"  Life  is  one  and  universal ;  its  forms  many  and  indi« 
vidual.  Throughout  this  beautiful  and  wonderful  crea 
tion  there  is  never-ceasing  motion,  without  rest  by 
night  or  day,  ever  weaving  to  and  fro.  Swifter  than  a 
weaver's  shuttle  it  flies  from  Birth  to  Death,  from  Death 
to  Birth  ;  from  the  beginning  seeks  the  end,  and  finds  it 
not,  for  the  seeming  end  is  only  a  dim  beginning  of  a 
new  out-going  and  endeavor  after  the  end.  As  the  ice 
upon  the  mountain,  when  the  warm  breath  of  the  sum 
mer  sun  breathes  upon  it,  melts,  and  divides  into  drops, 
each  of  which  reflects  an  image  of  the  sun ;  so  life,  in 
the  smile  of  God's  love,  divides  itself  into  separate  forms, 
each  bearing  in  it  and  reflecting  an  image  of  God's  love. 
Of  all  these  forms  the  highest  and  most  perfect  in  its 
God-likeness  is  the  human  soul.  The  vast  cathedral  of 
Nature  is  full  of  holy  scriptures,  and  shapes  of  deep, 
mysterious  meaning  ;  but  all  is  solitary  and  silent  there  ; 
no  bending  knee,  no  uplifted  eye,  no  lip  adoring,  pray 
ing.  Into  this  vast  cathedral  comes  the  human  soul, 
seeking  its  Creator  ;  and  the  universal  silence  is  changed 
to  sound,  and  the  sound  is  harmonious,  and  has  a  mean 
ing,  and  is  comprehended  and  felt.  It  was  an  ancient 
saying  of  the  Persians,  that  the  waters  rush  from  the 
mountains  and  hurry  forth  into  all  the  lands  to  find  the 
Lord  of  the  Earth  ;  and  the  flame  of  the  fire,  when  it 
awakes,  gazes  no  more  upon  the  ground,  but  mounts 
heavenward,  to  seek  the  Lord  of  Heaven  ;  and  here  and 
there  the  Earth  has  built  the  great  watch-towers  of  the 
mountains,  and  they  lift  their  heads  far  up  into  the  sky, 
and  gaze  ever  upward  and  around,  to  see  if  the  Judge  of 
the  World  comes  not !  Thus  in  Nature  herself,  without 
man,  there  lies  a  waiting  and  hoping,  a  looking  and 
yearning,  after,  an  unknown  somewhat.  Yes ;  when, 


A  ROMANCE.  93 

above  there,  where  the  mountain  lifts  its  head  oyer  all 
others,  that  it  may  be  alone  with  the  clouds  and  storms 
of  heaven,  the  lonely  eagle  looks  forth  into  the  gray 
dawn,  to  see  if  the  day  comes  not ;  when,  by  the  moun 
tain  torrent,  the  brooding  raven  listens  to  hear  if  the 
chamois  is  returning  from  his  nightly  pasture  in  the  val 
ley  ;  and  when  the  soon  uprising  sun  calls  out  the  spicy 
odors  of  the  thousand  flowers,  the  Alpine  flowers,  with 
heaven's  deep  blue  and  the  blush  of  sunset  on  their 
leaves ; — then  there  awake  in  Nature,  and  the  soul  of 
man  can  see  and  comprehend  it,  an  expectation  and  a 
longing  for  a  future  revelation  of  God's  majesty.  It 
awakes,  also,  when,  in  the  fullness  of  life,  field  and  forest 
rest  at  noon,  and  through  the  stillness  are  heard  only  the 
song  of  the  grasshopper  and  the  hum  of  the  bee ;  and 
when  at  evening  the  singing  lark  up  from  the  sweet- 
smelling  vineyard  rises,  or  in  the  later  hours  of  night 
Orion  puts  on  his  shining  armor,  to  walk  forth  in  the 
fields  of  heaven.  But  in  the  soul  of  man  alone  is  this 
longing  changed  to  certainty,  and  fulfilled.  For,  lo  ! 
the  light  of  the  sun  and  the  stars  shines  through  the  air, 
and  is  nowhere  visible  and  seen  ;  the  planets  hasten  with 
more  than  the  speed  of  the  storm  through  infinite  space, 
and  their  footsteps  are  not  heard  ;  but  where  the  sunlight 
strikes  the  firm  surface  of  the  planets,  where  the  storm- 
wind  smites  the  wall  of  the  mountain  cliff,  there  is  the 
one  seen  and  the  other  heard.  Thus  is  the  glory  of  God 
made  visible,  and  may  be  seen,  where  in  the  soul  of  man 
it  meets  its  likeness  changeless  and  firm-standing.  Thus, 
then,  stands  Man  ; — a  mountain  on  the  boundary  between 
two  worlds  ; — its  foot  in  one,  its  summit  far-rising  into 
the  other.  From  this  summit  the  manifold  landscape  of 
life  is  visible,  the  way  of  the  Past  and  Perishable,  which 


94  HYPERION, 

we  have  left  behind  us ;  and  as  we  evermore  ascend, 
bright  glimpses  of  the  daybreak  of  Eternity  beyond  us  ! " 

Flemming  would  fain  have  interrupted  this  discourse 
at  times,  to  answer  and  inquire  ;  but  the  Professor  went 
on,  warming  and  glowing  more  and  more.  At  length 
there  was  a  short  pause,  and  Flemming  said  : — 

"  All  these  indefinite  longings,  these  yearnings  after  an 
unknown  somewhat,  I  have  felt  and  still  feel  within  roe  ; 
but  not  yet  their  fulfilment. " 

"  That  is  because  you  have  not  faith,"  answered  the 
Professor.  "  The  Present  is  an  age  of  doubt,  and  dis 
belief,  and  darkness;  out  of  which  shall  arise  a  clear 
and  bright  Hereafter.  In  the  second  part  of  Goethe's 
Faust  there  is  a  grand  and  striking  scene,  where,  in  the 
classical  Walpurgis  Night,  on  the  Pharsalian  Plains,  the 
mocking  Mephistopheles  sits  down  between  the  solemn 
antique  Sphinxes,  and  boldly  questions  them,  and  reads 
their  riddles.  The  red  light  of  innumerable  watch-fires 
glares  all  round  about,  and  shines  upon  the  terrible  face 
of  the  arch-scoffer ;  while  on  either  side,  severe,  ma 
jestic,  solemnly  serene,  we  behold  the  gigantic  forms  of 
the  children  of  Chimaera,  half  buried  in  the  earth,  their 
mild  eyes  gazing  fixedly,  as  if  they  heard  through  the 
midnight  the  swift-rushing  wings  of  the  Stymphalides, 
striving  to  outstrip  the  speed  of  Alcides'  arrows  !  Angry 
griffins  are  near  them ;  and  not  far  are  Sirens,  singing 
their  wondrous  songs  from  the  rocking  branches  of  the 
willow-trees  !  Even  thus  does  a  scoffing  and  unbelieving 
Present  sit  down  between  an  unknown  Future  and  a  too  be 
lieving  Past,  and  question  and  challenge  the  gigantic  forms 
of  Faith,  half  buried  in  the  sands  of  Time,  and  gazing 
forward  steadfastly  into  the  night,  whilst  sounds  of  anger 
and  voices  of  delight  alternate  vex  and  soothe  the  ear  of 


A  ROMANCE.  95 

man  ! — But  the  time  will  come  when  the  soul  of  man 
shall  return  again  childlike  and  trustful  to  its  faith  in 
God,  and  look  God  in  the  face  and  die  ;  for  it  is  an  old 
saying,  full  of  deep,  mysterious  meaning,  that  he  must 
die  who  hath  looked  upon  a  God.  And  this  is  the  fate  oi 
the  soul,  that  it  should  die  continually.  No  sooner  here 
on  earth  does  it  awake  to  its  peculiar  being,  than  it 
struggles  to  behold  and  comprehend  the  Spirit  of  Life. 
In  the  first  dim  twilight  of  its  existence,  it  beholds  this 
spirit,  is  pervaded  by  its  energies, — is  quick  and  creative 
like  the  spirit  itself,  and  yet  slumbers  away  into  death 
after  having  seen  it.  But  the  image  it  has  seen  remains  ; 
in  the  eternal  procreation,  as  a  homogeneal  existence,  is 
again  renewed  ;  and  the  seeming  death,  from  moment  to 
moment,  becomes  the  source  of  kind  after  kind  of  exist- 
ences  in  ever-ascending  series.  The  soul  aspires  ever  on 
ward  to  love  and  to  behold.  It  sees  the  image  more  per 
fect  in  the  brightening  twilight  of  the  dawn,  in  the  ever 
higher-rising  sun.  It  sleeps  again,  dying  in  the  clearer 
vision  ;  but  the  image  seen  remains  as  a  permanent  kind  ; 
and  the  slumberer  awakes  anew  and  ever  higher  after  its 
own  image,  till  at  length,  in  the  full  blaze  of  noonday,  a 
being  comes  forth,  which,  like  the  eagle,  can  behold  the 
sun  and  die  not.  Then  both  live  on,  even  when  this 
bodily  element,  the  mist  and  vapor  through  which  the 
young  eagle  gazed,  dissolves  and  falls  to  earth." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  you,"  said  Flem- 
ming  ;  "but  if  I  do,  you  mean  to  say,  that,  as  the  body 
continually  changes  and  takes  unto  itself  new  properties, 
and  is  not  the  same  to-day  as  yesterday,  so  likewise  the 
Soul  lays  aside  its  idiosyncrasies,  and  is  changed  by  ac 
quiring  new  powers,  and  thus  may  be  said  to  die.  And 
hence,  properly  speaking,  the  soul  lives  always  in  the 
7 


96  HYPERION, 

Present,  and  has,  and  can  have,  no  Future  ;  for  the  Fu 
ture  becomes  the  Present,  and  the  soul  that  then  lives  in 
me  is  a  higher  and  more  perfect  soul ;  and  so  onward  for 
evermore." 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,"  continued  the  Professor;  "  and  can 
find  no  more  appropriate  language  to  express  my  mean 
ing  than  that  which  I  have  used.  But,  as  I  said  before, 
pardon  must  be  granted  to  the  novelty  of  words,  when 
it  serves  to  illustrate  the  obscurity  of  things.  And  I 
think  you  will  see  clearly  from  what  I  have  said,  that 
this  earthly  life,  when  seen  hereafter  from  heaven,  will 
seem  like  an  hour  passed  long  ago,  and  dimly  remem 
bered  ; — that  long,  laborious,  full  of  joys  and  sorrows  as 
it  is,  it  will  then  have  dwindled  down  to  a  mere  point, 
hardly  visible  to  the  far-reaching  ken  of  the  disembodied 
spirit.  But  the  spirit  itself  soars  onward.  And  thus 
death  is  neither  an  end  nor  a  beginning.  It  is  a  transi 
tion,  not  from  one  existence  to  another,  but  from  one 
state  of  existence  to  another.  No  link  is  broken  in  the 
chain  of  being;  any  more  than  in  passing  from  infancy  to 
manhood,  from  manhood  to  old  age.  There  are  seasons 
of  reverie  and  deep  abstraction,  which  seem  to  me  analo 
gous  to  death.  The  soul  gradually  loses  its  conscious 
ness  of  what  is  passing  around  it ;  and  takes  no  longer 
cognizance  of  objects  which  are  near.  It  seems  for 
the  moment  to  have  dissolved  its  connection  with  the 
body.  It  has  passed,  as  it  were,  into  another  state  of 
being.  It  lives  in  another  world.  It  has  flown  over 
lands  and  seas ;  and  holds  communion  with  those  it 
loves,  in  distant  regions  of  the  earth,  and  the  more 
distant  heaven.  It  sees  familiar  faces,  and  hears  be 
loved  voices,  which  to  the  bodily  senses  are  no  longer 
visible  and  audible.  And  this  likewise  is  death  ;  save 


A  ROMANCE.  97 

that  when  we  die,  the  soul  returns  no  more  to  the  dwell* 
ing  it  has  left." 

"  You  seem  to  take  it  for  granted,"  interrupted  Flem- 
ming,  "  that,  in  our  reveries,  the  soul  really  goes  out  of 
the  body  into  distant  places,  instead  of  summoning  up 
their  semblance  within  itself  by  the  power  of  memory  and. 
imagination." 

"Something  I  must  take  for  granted,"  replied  the 
Professor.  "  We  will  not  discuss  that  point  now.  I 
speak  not  without  forethought.  Just  observe  what  a 
glorious  thing  human  life  is,  when  seen  in  this  light ;  and 
how  glorious  man's  destiny.  I  am  ;  thou  art ;  he  is  1 
seems  but  a  school-boy's  conjugation.  But  therein  lies  a 
great  mystery.  We  behold  all  round  about  us  one  vast 
union,  in  which  no  man  can  labor  for  himself,  without 
laboring  at  the  same  time  for  all  others  ;  a  glimpse  of 
truth,  which,  by  the  universal  harmony  of  things,  becomes 
an  inward  benediction,  and  lifts  the  soul  mightily  up 
ward.  Still  more  so,  when  a  man  regards  himself  as  a 
necessary  member  of  this  union.  The  feeling  of  our  dig 
nity  and  our  power  grows  strong,  when  we  say  to  our 
selves  :  My  being  is  not  objectless  and  in  vain ;  I  am 
a  necessary  link  in  the  great  chain,  which,  from  the  full 
development  of  consciousness  in  the  first  man,  reaches 
forward  into  eternity.  All  the  great  and  wise  and  good 
among  mankind,  all  the  benefactors  of  the  human  race, 
whose  names  I  read  in  the  world's  history,  and  the  still 
greater  number  of  those  whose  good  deeds  have  outlived 
their  names, — all  those  have  labored  for  me.  I  have 
entered  into  their  harvest.  I  walk  the  green  earth  which 
they  inhabited.  I  tread  in  their  footsteps,  from  which 
blessings  grow.  I  can  undertake  the  sublime  task  which 
they  once  undertook,  the  task  of  making  our  commoz? 


98  HYPERION, 

brotherhood  wiser  and  happier.  I  can  build  forward 
where  they  were  forced  to  leave  off  ;  and  bring  nearer  to 
perfection  the  great  edifice  which  they  left  uncompleted. 
And  at  length  I,  too,  must  leave  it,  and  go  hence.  O, 
this  is  the  sublimest  thought  of  all !  I  can  never  finish 
the  noble  task  ;  therefore,  so  sure  as  this  task  is  my 
destiny,  I  can  never  cease  to  work,  and  consequently 
never  cease  to  be.  "What  men  call  death  cannot  break 
off  this  task,  which  is  never-ending;  consequently  no 
period  is  set  to  my  being,  and  I  am  eternal.  I  lift  my 
head  boldly  to  the  threatening  mountain-peaks,  and  to  the 
roaring  cataract,  and  to  the  storm-clouds  swimming  in 
the  fire-sea  overhead,  and  say, — I  am  eternal  and  defy 
your  power  !  Break,  break  over  me  !  and  thou  Earth, 
and  thou  Heaven  mingle  in  the  wild  tumult !  and  ye 
Elements,  foam  and  rage  and  destroy  this  atom  of  dust, 
— this  body  which  I  call  mine  !  My  will  alone  with  its 
fixed  purpose  shall  hover  brave  and  triumphant  over  the 
ruins  of  the  universe  ;  for  I  have  comprehended  my  des 
tiny  ;  and  it  is  more  durable  than  ye  !  It  is  eternal ;  and 
I,  who  recognize  it,  I  likewise  am  eternal !  Tell  me,  my 
friend,  have  you  no  faith  in  this  ?  " 

"  I  have,"  answered  Flemming,  and  there  was  another 
pause.  He  then  said  : — 

"I  have  listened  to  you  patiently  and  without  inter 
ruption.  Now  listen  to  me.  You  complain  of  the  scep 
ticism  of  the  age.  This  is  one  form  in  which  the  philo 
sophic  spirit  of  the  age  presents  itself.  Let  me  tell  you, 
that  another  form  which  it  assumes  is  that  of  poeti« 
reverie.  Plato  of  old  had  dreams  like  these ;  and  the 
Mystics  of  the  Middle  Ages  ;  and  still  their  disciples  walk 
in  the  cioud-land  and  dream-land  of  this  poetic  philoso 
phy,  tieasant  and  cool  upon  their  souls  lie  the  shadows 


A  ROMANCE.  99 

of  the  trees  under  which  Plato  taught.  From  their 
whispering  leaves  comes  wafted  across  the  noise  of  popu 
lous  centuries  a  solemn  and  mysterious  sound,  which  to 
them  is  the  voice  of  the  Soul  of  the  World.  All  nature 
has  become  spiritualized  and  transfigured ;  and,  wrapped 
in  beautiful,  vague  dreams  of  the  real  and  the  ideal,  they 
live  in  this  green  world,  like  the  little  child  in  the  Ger 
man  tale,  who  sits  by  the  margin  of  a  woodland  lake, 
and  hears  the  blue  heaven  and  the  branches  overhead  dis 
pute  with  their  reflection  in  the  water,  which  is  the 
reality  and  which  the  image.  I  willingly  confess  that 
such  day-dreams  as  these  appeal  strongly  to  my  imagina 
tion.  Visitants  and  attendants  are  they  of  those  lofty 
souls,  which,  soaring  ever  higher  and  higher,  build  them 
selves  nests  under  the  very  eaves  of  the  stars,  forgetful 
that  they  cannot  live  on  air,  but  must  descend  to  earth 
for  food.  Yet  I  recognize  them  as  day-dreams  only  ;  as 
shadows,  not  substantial  things.  What  I  mainly  dislike 
in  the  New  Philosophy  is  the  cool  impertinence  with 
which  an  old  idea  folded  in  a  new  garment  looks  you  in 
the  face  and  pretends  not  to  know  you,  though  you  have 
been  familiar  friends  from  childhood.  I  remember  an 
English  author,  who,  in  speaking  of  your  German  philos 
ophies,  says  very  wisely  :  '  Often  a  proposition  of  inscru 
table  and  dread  aspect,  when  resolutely  grappled  with, 
and  torn  from  its  shady  den,  and  its  bristling  intrench- 
ments  of  uncouth  terminology,  and  dragged  forth  into 
the  open  light  of  day,  to  be  seen  by  the  natural  eye  and 
tried  by  merely  human  understanding,  proves  to  be  a 
very  harmless  truth,  familiar  to  us  from  old,  sometimes 
so  familiar  as  to  be  a  truism.  Too  frequently  the  anxious 
novice  is  reminded  of  Dryden  in  the  Battle  of  the  Booka  ; 
there  is  a  helmet  of  rusty  iron,  dark,  grim,  gigantic ;  aud 


100 

within  it,  at  the  farthest  corner,  is  a  head  no  bigger  than 
a  walnut.' — Can  you  believe  that  these  words  ever  came 
from  the  lips  of  Carlyle  ?  He  has  himself  taken  up  the 
uncouth  terminology,  of  late ;  and  many  pure,  simple 
minds  are  much  offended  at  it.  They  seem  to  take  it  as 
a  personal  insult.  They  are  angry,  and  deny  the  just 
meed  of  praise.  It  is,  however,  hardly  worth  while  to 
lose  our  presence  of  mind.  Let  us  rather  profit  as  we 
may,  even  from  this  spectacle,  and  recognize  the  mon 
arch  in  his  masquerade.  For,  hooded  and  wrapped  about 
with  that  strange  and  antique  garb,  there  walks  a  kingly, 
a  most  royal  soul,  even  as  the  Emperor  Charles  walked 
amid  solemn  cloisters  under  a  monk's  cowl, — a  monarch 
still  in  soul.  Such  things  are  not  new  in  the  history  of 
the  world.  Ever  and  anon  they  sweep  over  the  earth, 
and  blow  themselves  out  soon ;  and  there  is  quiet  for  a 
season,  and  the  amosphere  of  Truth  seems  more  serene. 
Why  would  you  preach  to  the  wind  ?  Why  reason  with 
thunderstorms  ?  Better  sit  quiet,  and  see  them  pass  over 
like  a  pageant,  cloudy,  superb,  and  vast." 

The  Professor  smiled  self -complacently,  but  said  not  a 
word.  Flemming  continued  : — 

"  I  will  add  no  more  than  this ; — there  are  many  spec 
ulations  in  Literature,  Philosophy,  and  Religion,  which, 
though  pleasant  to  walk  in,  and  lying  under  the  shadow 
of  great  names,  yet  lead  to  no  important  result.  They 
resemble  rather  those  roads  in  the  Western  forests  of  my 
native  land,  which,  though  broad  and  pleasant  at  firstj 
and  lying  beneath  the  shadow  of  great  branches,  finally 
dwindle  to  a  squirrel  track,  and  run  up  a  tree  ! " 

"The  Professor  hardly  knew  whether  he  should  laugh  01 
be  offended  at  this  sally  ;  and  laying  his  hand  upon  Flea* 
ming's  arm,  he  said  seriously : — > 


A  ROMANCE.  101 

"Believe  me,  my  young  friend,  the  time  will  come 
when  you  will  think  more  wisely  on  these  things.  And 
with  you,  I  trust,  that  time  will  soon  come  ;  since  it 
moves  more  speedily  with  some  than  with  others.  For 
what  is  Time  !  The  shadow  on  the  dial, — the  striking  of 
the  clock, — the  running  of  the  sand, — day  and  night, — 
summer  and  winter, — months,  years,  centuries  ; — these 
are  but  arbitrary  and  outward  signs,  the  measure  of  Time, 
not  Time  itself.  Time  is  the  Life  of  the  Soul.  If  not 
this,  then  tell  me,  what  is  Time  ?  " 

The  high  and  animated  tone  of  voice  in  which  the  Pro 
fessor  uttered  these  words  aroused  the  Baron  from  his 
sleep,  and,  not  distinctly  comprehending  what  was  said, 
but  thinking  the  Professor  asked  what  time  it  was,  he 
innocently  exclaimed : — 

"I  should  think  it  must  be  near  midnight !" 

This  somewhat  disconcerted  the  Professor,  who  took 
his  leave  soon  afterward.  When  he  was  gone,  the  Baron 
said: — 

"  Excuse  me  for  treating  your  guest  so  cavalierly.  His 
transcendentalism  annoyed  me  not  a  little  ;  and  I  took 
refuge  in  sleep.  One  would  think,  to  judge  by  the  lan 
guage  of  this  sect,  that  they  alone  saw  any  beauty  in 
Nature  ;  and  when  I  hear  one  of  them  discourse,  I  am  in 
stantly  reminded  of  Goethe's  Baccalaureus,  when  he  ex 
claims  :  '  The  world  was  not,  before  I  created  it ;  I 
brought  the  sun  up  out  of  the  sea ;  with  me  began  the 
changeful  course  of  the  moon  ;  the  day  decked  itself  on 
my  account ;  the  earth  grew  green  and  blossomed  to 
meet  me  ;  at  my  nod,  in  that  first  night,  the  pomp  of  all 
the  stars  developed  itself  ;  who  but  I  set  you  free  from  all 
the  bonds  of  Philister-like,  contracting  thoughts  ?  I, 
however  emancipated  as  my  mind  assures  me  I  am,  gladly 


102  HYPERION. 

pursue  my  inward  light,  advance  boldly  in  a  transport 
peculiarly  my  own,  the  bright  before  me,  and  the  dark  be 
hind  ! ' — Do  you  not  see  a  resemblance  ?  0,  they  might 
be  modest  enough  to  confess  that  one  straggling  ray  of 
light  may,  by  some  accident,  reach  the  blind  eyes  of  even 
us  poor,  benighted  heathen  ! " 

" Alas!  how  little  veneration  we  have!"  said  Flem- 
ming.  "  I  could  not  help  closing  the  discussion  with  a 
jest.  An  ill-timed  levity  often  takes  me  by  surprise.  On 
all  such  occasions,  I  think  of  a  scene  at  the  University, 
where,  in  the  midst  of  a  grave  discussion  on  the  possi 
bility  of  Absolute  Motion,  a  scholar  said  he  had  seen  a 
rock  split  open  from  which  sprang  a  toad,  who  could  not 
be  supposed  to  have  any  knowledge  of  the  external  world, 
amd  consequently  his  motion  must  have  been  absolute. 
The  learned  Professor  who  presided  on  that  occasion  was 
hardly  more  startled  and  astonished  than  was  our  learned 
Professor,  five  minutes  ago.  But  come  ;  wind  up  your 
watch,  and  let  us  go  to  bed." 

"By  the  way,"  said  the  Baron,  "did  you  mind  what  a 
curious  head  he  has  ?  There  are  two  crowns  upon  it. 

"  That  is  a  sign,"  replied  Flemming,  "that  he  will  eat 
his  bread  in  two  kingdoms. " 

"  I  think  the  poor  man  would  be  very  thankful,"  said 
the  Baron,  with  a  smile,  "  if  he  were  always  sure  of  eat 
ing  it  in  one.  He  is  what  the  Transcendentalists  call  a 
God-intoxicated  man  ;  and  I  advise  him,  as  Santeul  ad 
vised  Bossuet,  to  go  to  Patmos  and  write  a  new  Apoc 
alypse. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MILL-WHEELS  AND    OTHER  WHEELS. 

A  FEW  days  after  this,  the  Baron  received  letters 
from  his  sister,  telling  him  that  her  physicians  had 
prescribed  a  few  weeks  at  the  Baths  of  Ems,  and  urging 
him  to  meet  her  there  before  the  fashionable  season. 

"  Come,"  said  he  to  Flemming  ;  "  make  this  short 
journey  with  me.  We  will  pass  a  few  pleasant  days  at 
Ems,  and  visit  the  other  watering-places  of  Nassau.  It 
will  drive  away  the  melancholy  day-dreams  that  haunt 
you.  Perhaps  some  future  bride  is  even  now  waiting  for 
you,  with  dim  presentiments  and  undefined  longings,  at 
the  Serpent's  Bath." 

"  Or  some  widow  of  Ems,  with  a  cork  leg  ! "  said  Flem 
ming,  smiling ;  and  then  added,  in  a  tone  of  voice  half 
jest,  half  earnest,  "  Certainly ;  let  us  go  in  pursuit  of 
her : — 

'  Whoe'er  she  be, 
That  not  impossible  she, 
That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me : 
^  Where'er  she  lie, 

Hidden  from  mortal  eye, 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny.' " 

They  started  in  the  afternoon  for  Frankfort,  pursuing 
their  way  slowly  along  the  lovely  Bergstrasse,  famed 
throughout  Germany  for  its  beauty.  They  passed  tli9 

103 


104  HYPERION, 

ruined  house  where  Martin  Luther  lay  concealed  after  the 
Diet  of  Worms,  and  through  the  village  of  Handschuhs- 
heimer,  as  old  as  the  days  of  King  Pepin  the  short,— a 
hamlet,  lying  under  the  hills,  half  buried  in  blossoms  and 
green  leaves.  Close  on  the  right  rose  the  mountains  of 
the  -mysterious  Odenwald ;  on  the  left  lay  the  Neckar, 
like  a  steel  bow  in  the  meadow.  Farther  westward,  a  thin 
smoky  vapor  betrayed,  the  course  of  the  Ehine ;  beyond 
which,  like  a  troubled  sea,  ran  the  blue,  billowy  Alsatian 
hills.  Song  of  birds,  and  sound  of  evening  bells,  and 
fragrance  of  sweet  blossoms,  filled  the  air ;  and  silent  and 
slow  sank  the  broad  red  sun,  half  hidden  amid  folding 
clouds. 

"  We  shall  not  pass  the  night  at  Weinheim,"  said  the 
Baron  to  the  postilion,  who  had  dismounted  to  walk  up 
the  hill  leading  to  the  town.  "  You  may  drive  to  the 
mill  in  the  Valley  of  Birkenau." 

The  postilion  seized  one  of  his  fat  horses  by  the  tail, 
and  swung  himself  up  to  his  seat  again.  They  rattled 
over  the  paved  streets  of  Weinheim,  and  took  no  heed  of 
the  host  of  the  Golden  Eagle,  who  stood  so  invitingly  at 
the  door  of  his  own  inn  ;  and  the  ruins  of  Burg  Windeck, 
above  there,  on  its  mountain  throne,  frowned  at  them  for 
hurrying  by,  without  staying  to  do  him  homage. 

"  The  old  ruin  looks  well  from  the  valley,"  said  the 
Baron  ;  but  let  us  beware  of  climbing  that  steep  hill. 
Most  travellers  are  like  children  ;  they  must  needs  touch 
whatever  they  behold.  They  climb  up  to  every  old  broken 
tooth  of  a  castle  which  they  find  on  their  way  ;  get  a  toil 
some  ascent  and  hot  sunshine  for  their  pains,  and  come 
down  wearied  and  disappointed.  I  trust  we  are  wiser. " 

They  crossed  the  bridge,  and  turned  up  the  stream, 
passing  tinder  an  arch  of  stone  which  serves  as  a  gateway 


A  ROMANCE.  105 

to  this  enchanted  Valley  of  Birkenau.  A  cool  and  lovely 
valley,  shut  in  by  high  hills  ; — shaded  by  alder-trees  and 
tall  poplars,  under  which  rushes  the  Weclisnitz,  a  noisy 
mountain-brook,  that  ever  and  anon  puts  its  broad  shoul 
der  to  the  wheel  of  a  mill,  and  shows  that  it  can  labor  as 
well  as  laugh.  At  one  of  these  mills  they  stopped  for  the 
night. 

A  mill  forms  as  characteristic  a  feature  in  the  romantic 
German  landscape  as  in  the  romantic  German  tale.  It  is 
not  only  a  mill,  but  likewise  an  alehouse  and  rural  inn  ; 
so  that  the  associations  it  suggests  are  not  of  labor  only, 
but  also  of  pleasure.  It  stands  in  the  narrow  defile,  with 
its  picturesque  thatched  roof  ;  thither  throng  the  peas 
ants,  of  a  holiday  ;  and  there  are  rustic  dances  under  the 
trees. 

In  the  twilight  of  the  fast-approaching  summer  night, 
the  Baron  and  Flemming  walked  forth  along  the  borders 
of  the  stream.  As  they  heard  it  rushing  and  gushing 
among  the  stones  and  tangled  roots,  and  the  great  wheel 
turning  in  the  current,  with  its  never-ceasing  plash  ! 
plash  !  it  brought  to  their  minds  that  exquisite,  simple 
song  of  Goethe,  the  Youth  and  the  Mill-brook.  It  was 
for  the  moment  a  nymph  which  sang  to  them  in  the 
voice  of  the  waters. 

"I  am  persuaded,"  said  Flemming,  "that,  in  order 
fully  to  understand  and  feel  the  popular  poetry  of  Ger 
many,  one  must  be  familiar  with  the  German  landscape. 
Many  sweet  little  poems  are  the  outbreaks  of  momentary 
feelings  ; — words  to  which  the  song  of  birds,  the  rustling 
of  leaves,  and  the  gurgle  of  cool  waters  form  the  appro 
priate  music.  Or  perhaps  I  should  say  they  are  words 
which  man  has  composed  to  the  music  of  nature.  Can 
jou  not,  even  now,  hear  this  brooklet  telling  you  how  it 


106  HYPERION, 

is  on  its  way  to  the  mill,  where  at  daybreak  the  miller'a 
daughter  opens  her  window,  and  comes  down  to  bathe 
her  face  in  its  stream,  and  her  bosom  is  so  full  and  white, 
that  it  kindles  the  glow  of  love  in  the  cool  waters  ?  " 

"A  most  delightful  ballad,  truly,"  said  the  Baron. 
"But,  like  many  others  of  our  little  songs,  it  requires  a 
poet  to  feel  and  understand  it.  Sing  them  i-n  the  valley 
and  woodland  shadows,  and  under  the  leafy  roofs  of  gar 
den  walks,  and  at  .night,  and  alone,  as  they  were  written. 
Sing  them  not  in  the  loud  world, — for  the  loud  world 
laughs  such  things  to  scorn.  It  is  Mueller  who  says,  in 
that  little  song  where  the  maiden  bids  the  moon  good 
evening : — 

'  This  song  was  made  to  be  sung  at  night, 
And  he  who  reads  it  in  broad  daylight 
Will  never  read  the  mystery  right ; 
And  yet  it  is  childlike  easy  1 ' 

fle  has  written  a  great  many  pretty  songs,  in  which  the 
momentary,  indefinite  longings  and  impulses  of  the  soul 
of  man  find  expression.  He  calls  them  the  Songs  of  a 
Wandering  Horn-player.  There  is  one  among  them  much 
to  our  present  purpose.  He  expresses  it  in  the  feeling  of 
unrest  and  desire  of  motion,  which  the  sight  and  sound 
of  running  waters  often  produce  in  us.  It  is  entitled 
*  Whither  ?  '  and  is  worth  repeating  to  you. 

'  I  heard  a  brooklet  gushing 

From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 
Down  into  the  valley  rushing, 
So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

'  I  know  not  what  came  o'er  me, 

Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 

But  I  must  hasten  downward, 

All  with  my  pilgrim-stave. 


A  HOMANC&  1Q7 

'  Downward,  and  ever  farthei, 
And  ever  the  brook  beside  ; 
And  ever  fresher  murmured, 
And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

e  Is  this  the  way  I  was  going  ? 
Whither,  0  brooklet '{  say  1 
Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 
Murmured  my  senses  away. 

'  What  do  I  say  of  a  murmur  ? 

That  can  no  murmur  be  ; 
'Tis  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 
Their  roundelays  under  me. 

'  Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murraur 

And  wander  merrily  near  ; 

The  wheels  of  a  mill  are  going 

In  every  brooklet  clear.' " 

"  There  you  have  the  poetic  reverie,"  said  Flemming, 
"and  the  dull  prose  commentary  and  explanation  in 
matter  of  fact.  The  song  is  pretty ;  and  was  probably 
suggested  by  some  such  scene  as  this  which  we  are  now 
beholding.  Doubtless,  all  your  old  national  traditions 
sprang  up  in  the  popular  mind  as  this  song  in  the  poet's." 

"  Your  opinion  is  certainly  correct,"  answered  the 
Btiron  ;  "and  yet  all  this  play  of  poetic  fancy  docs  not 
prevent  me  from  feeling  the  chill  night-air  and  the  pangs 
of  hunger.  Let  us  go  back  to  the  mill,  and  see  what  our 
landlady  has  for  supper.  Did  you  observe,  what  a  loud, 
sharp  voice  she  has  ?  " 

"  People  always  have,  who  live  in  mills,  and  near 
waterfalls." 

On  the  following  morning,  they  emerged  unwillingly 
from  the  green,  dark  valley,  and  journeyed  along  the 
level  highway  to  Frankfort,  where  in  the  evening  they 


heard  the  glorious  Don  Giovanni  of  Mozart.  Of  all 
operas,  this  was  Flemming's  favorite.  What  rapturous 
flights  of  sound  !  what  thrilling,  pathetic  chimes  !  what 
wild,  joyous  revelry  of  passion  !  what  a  delirium  of  sense  ! 
what  an  expression  of  agony  and  woe  ! — all  the  feelings 
of  suffering  and  rejoicing  humanity  sympathized  with 
and  finding  a  voice  in  those  tones.  Flemniing  and  the 
Baron  listened  with  ever-increasing  delight. 

"  How  wonderful  this  is ! "  exclaimed  Flemming, 
transported  by  his  feelings.  "How  the  chorus  swells 
and  dies,  like  the  wind  of  summer  !  How  those  passages 
of  mysterious  import  seem  to  wave  to  and  fro,  like  the 
swaying  branches  of  trees ;  from  which  anon  some  soli 
tary  sweet  voice  darts  off  like  a  bird,  and  floats  away  and 
revels  in  the  bright,  warm  sunshine  !  And  then,  mark  ! 
how,  amid  the  chorus  of  a  hundred  voices  and  a  hundred 
instruments, — of  flutes,  and  drums,  and  trumpets, — this 
universal  shout  and  whirlwind  of  the  vexed  air,  you  can 
so  clearly  distinguish  the  melancholy  vibration  of  a  single 
string,  touched  by  the  finger, — a  mournful,  sobbing 
sound  !  Ah,  this  is  indeed  human  life  !  where,  in  the 
rushing,  noisy  crowd,  and  amid  sounds  of  gladness,  and 
a  thousand  mingling  emotions,  distinctly  audible  to  the 
ear  of  thought,  are  the  pulsations  of  some  melancholy 
string  of  the  heart,  touched  by  an  invisible  hand." 

Then  came,  in  the  midst  of  these  excited  feelings,  the 
ballet,  drawing  its  magic  net  about  the  soul.  And  soon, 
from  the  tangled  yet  harmonious  mazes  of  the  dance, 
came  forth  a  sylph-like  form,  her  scarf  floating  behind 
her,  as  if  she  were  fanning  the  air  with  gauze-like  wings. 
Noiseless  as  a  feather  or  a  snow-flake  falls,  did  her  feet 
touch  the  earth.  She  seemed  to  float  in  the  air,  and  the 
floor  to  bend  and  wave  under  her,  as  a  branch  when  a 


109 

bird  alights  upon  it  and  takes  wing  again.  Loud  and 
rapturous  applause  followed  each  wonderful  step,  each 
voluptuous  movement ;  and,  with  a  flushed  cheek  and 
burning  eye,  and  bosom  panting  to  be  free,  stood  the 
gracefully  majestic  figure  for  a  moment  still,  and  then 
the  winged  feet  of  the  swift  dancing-girls  glanced  round 
her,  and  she  was  lost  again  in  the  throng. 

"  How  truly  exquisite  this  is  ! "  exclaimed  the  Baron, 
after  joining  loudly  in  the  applause. 

"What  a  noble  figure  !  What  grace  !  what  attitudes  I 
How  much  soul  in  every  motion  !  how  much  expression 
in  every  gesture  !  I  assure  you,  it  produces  upon  me  the 
same  effect  as  a  beautiful  poem.  It  is  a  poem.  Every 
step  is  a  word  ;  and  the  whole  together  a  poem." 

The  Baron  and  Flemming  were  delighted  with  the 
scene  ;  and  at  the  same  time  exceedingly  amused  with  the 
countenance  of  an  old  prude  in  the  next  box,  who  seemed 
to  look  upon  the  whole  magic  show  with  such  feelings  as 
Michal,  Saul's  daughter,  experienced,  when  she  looked 
from  her  window  and  saw  King  David  dancing  and  leap 
ing  with  his  scanty  garments. 

"After  all,"  said  Flemming,  "the  old  French  priest 
was  not  so  far  out  of  the  way,  when  he  said,  in  his  coarse 
dialect,  '  The  dance  is  the  Devil's  procession  ;  and  paint 
and  ornaments  the  whetting  of  the  Devil's  sword ;  and 
the  ring  that  is  made  in  dancing,  the  Devil's  grindstone, 
whereon  he  sharpens  his  sword  ;  and  finally, — a  ballet  is 
the  pomp  and  mass  of  the  Devil,  and  whosoever  entereth 
therein  entereth  into  his  pomp  and  mass  ;  for  the  woman 
tfho  singeth  is  the  prioress  of  the  Devil,  and  they  that 
answer  are  clerks,  and  they  that  look  on  are  parishioners, 
and  the  cymbals  and  flutes  are  the  bells,  and  the  musi 
cians  that  play  are  the  ministers  of  the  Devil.' ' 


no  SYPERION. 

"  No  doubt,  this  good  lady  near  us  thinks  so  likewise/' 
answered  the  Baron,  laughing ;  "  but  she  likes  it  for  all 
that." 

When  the  play  was  over,  the  Baron  begged  Flemming 
to  sit  still  till  the  crowd  had  gone. 

'  "  I  have  a  strange  fancy,"  said  he  "whenever  I  come 
to  the  theatre,  to  see  the  end  of  all  things.  When  the 
crowd  is  gone,  and  the  curtain  raised  again  to  air  the 
house,  and  the  lamps  are  all  out,  save  here  and  there  one 
behind  the  scenes,  the  contrast  with  what  has  gone  before 
is  most  impressive.  Every  thing  wears  a  dream-like 
aspect.  The  empty  boxes  and  stalls,  the  silence,  the 
smoky  twilight,  and  the  magic  scene  dismantled,  produce 
in  me  a  strange,  mysterious  feeling.  It  is  like  a  dim 
reflection  of  a  theatre  in  water  or  in  a  dusty  mirror,  and 
reminds  me  of  some  of  Hoffmann's  wild  tales.  It  is  a 
practical  moral  lesson,  a  commentary  on  the  play,  and 
makes  the  show  complete." 

It  was  truly  as  he  said ;  only  tenfold  more  desolate, 
solemn,  and  impressive ;  and  produced  upon  the  mind 
the  effect  we  experience  when  slumber  is  suddenly  broken, 
and  dreams  and  realities  mingle,  and  we  know  not  yet 
whether  we  sleep  or  wake.  As  they  at  length  passed  out 
through  the  dimly-lighted  passage,  they  heard  a  vulgar- 
looking  fellow,  with  a  sensual  face  and  shaggy  whiskers, 
say  to  some  persons  who  were  standing  near  him,  and 
seemed  to  be  hangers-on  of  the  play-house  : — 

"  I  shall  run  her  six  months  at  Munich,  and  then  take 
her  on  to  Vienna." 

Flemming  thought  he  was  speaking  of  some  favorite 
horse.  He  was  speaking  of  his  beautiful  wife,  the  ballet' 
dancer, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

OLD   HUMBUG. 

WHAT  most  interested  our  travellers  in  the  ancient 
city  of  Frankfort  was  neither  the  opera,  nor  the 
Ariadne  of  Dannecker,  but  the  house  in  which  Goethe 
was  born,  and  the  scenes  he  frequented  in  his  childhood 
and  remembered  in  his  old  age.  Such,  for  example,  are 
the  walks  around  the  city,  outside  the  moat ;  the  bridge 
over  the  Main,  with  the  golden  cock  on  the  cross,  which 
the  poet  beheld  and  marvelled  at  when  a  boy ;  the  clois 
ter  of  the  Barefooted  Friars,  through  which  he  stole  with 
mysterious  awe  to  sit  by  the  oilcloth-covered  table  of  old 
Eector  Albrecht ;  and  the  garden  in  which  his  grand 
father  walked  up  and  down  among  fruit-trees  and  rose 
bushes,  in  long  morning-gown,  black  velvet  cap,  and  the 
antique  leather  gloves,  which  he  annually  received  as 
Mayor  on  Pipers-Doomsday  representing  a  kind  of  middle 
personage  between  Alcinoiis  and  Laertes.  Thus,  0  Ge 
nius  !  are  thy  footprints  hallowed ;  and  the  star  shines 
for  ever  over  the  place  of  thy  nativity. 

"Your  English  critics  may  rail  as  they  list,"  said  the 
Baron,  while  he  and  Flemming  were  returning  from  a 
stroll  in  the  leafy  gardens  outside  the  moat ;  "  but,  after 
all,  Goethe  was  a  magnificent  old  fellow.  Only  think  of 
his  life,  his  youth  of  passion,  alternately  aspiring  and  de 
sponding,  stormy,  impetuous,  headlong  ; — his  romantic 
manhood,  in  which  passion  assumes  the  form  of  strength  j 
8  111 


112  HYPERION, 

assiduous,  careful,  toiling,  without  haste,  without  rest  ;— 
and  his  sublime  old  age, — the  age  of  serene  and  classic 
repose,  where  he  stands  like  Atlas,  as  Claudian  has  painted 
him  in  the  Battle  of  the  Giants,  holding  the  world  aloft 
upon  his  head,  the  ocean-streams  hard  frozen  in  his  hoary 
locks." 

"  A  good  illustration  of  what  the  world  calls  his  indif- 
ferentism." 

"  And  do  you  know  I  rather  like  this  indifferentism  ? 
Did  you  never  have  the  misfortune  to  live  in  a  commu 
nity,  where  a  difficulty  in  the  parish  seemed  to  announce 
the  end  of  the  world  ?  or  to  know  one  of  the  benefactors 
of  the  human  race,  in  the  very  storm  and  pressure  period 
of  his  indiscreet  enthusiasm  ?  If  you  have,  I  think  you 
will  see  something  beautiful  in  the  calm  and  dignified  at 
titude  which  the  old  philosopher  assumes." 

"It  is  a  pity  that  his  admirers  had  not  a  little  of  this 
philosophic  coolness.  It  amuses  me  to  read  the  various 
epithets  which  they  apply  to  him  : — The  Dear,  dear  Man  ! 
The  Life-enjoying  Man  !  The  All-sided  One  !  The  Ecp- 
resentative  of  Poetry  upon  Earth  !  The  Many-sided  Mas 
ter-mind  of  Germany  !  His  enemies  rush  into  the  other 
extreme,  and  hurl  at  him  the  fierce  names  of  Old 
Humbug  !  and  Old  Heathen  !  which  hit  like  pistol- 
bullets." 

"  I  confess  he  was  no  saint." 

"  No  ;  his  philosophy  is  the  old  ethnic  philosophy.  You 
will  find  it  all  in  a  convenient  and  concentrated  portable 
form  in  Horace's  beautiful  Ode  to  Thaliarcus.  What  I 
most  object  to  in  the  old  gentleman  is  his  sensuality." 

"  0,  nonsense  !  Nothing  can  be  purer  than  the  Iphi 
genia  ;  it  is  as  cold  and  passionless  as  a  marble  statue." 

""Very  true  ;  but  you  cannot  say  the  same  of  some  of 


A  ROMANCE.  113 

the  Roman  Elegies,  and  of  that  strange  book,  the  Elective 
Affinities." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  Goethe  is  an  artist ;  and  looks  upon 
all  things  as  objects  of  art  merely.  Why  should  he  not 
be  allowed  to  copy  in  words  what  painters  and  sculptors 
copy  in  colors  and  in  marble  ?  " 

"  The  artist  shows  his  character  in  the  choice  of  his 
subject.  Goethe  never  sculptured  an  Apollo,  nor  painted 
a  Madonna.  He  gives  us  only  sinful  Magdalens  and 
rampant  Fauns.  He  does  not  so  much  idealize  as  realize." 

"  He  only  copies  nature." 

"So  did  the  artists  who  made  the  bronze  lamps  of 
Pompeii.  Would  you  hang  one  of  those  in  your  hall  ? 
To  say  that  man  is  an  artist  and  copies  nature  is  not 
enough.  There  are  two  great  schools  of  art ;  the  imita 
tive  and  the  imaginative.  The  latter  is  the  most  noble, 
and  the  most  enduring ;  and  Goethe  belonged  rather  to 
the  former.  Have  you  read  Menzel's  attack  upon  him  ?  " 

"  It  is  truly  ferocious.  The  Silesian  hews  into  him 
lustily.  I  hope  you  do  not  side  with  him." 

"By  no  means.  He  goes  too  far.  He  blames  the  poet 
for  not  being  a  politician.  He  might  as  well  blame  him 
for  not  being  a  missionary  to  the  Sandwich  Islands." 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  Eckermann  ?" 

"  I  think  he  is  a  toady ;  a  kind  of  German  Boswell. 
Goethe  knew  he  was  drawing  his  portrait,  and  attitudinized 
for  it  accordingly.  He  works  very  hard  to  make  a  Saint 
Peter  out  of  an  old  Jupiter,  as  the  Catholics  did  at  Rome." 

"  Well,  call  him  Old  Humbug,  or  Old  Heathen,  or  what 
you  please ;  I  maintain,  that,  with  all  his  errors  and  short 
comings,  he  was  a  glorious  specimen  of  a  man." 

*•'  He  certainly  was.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  he 
was  in  some  points  like  Ben  Franklin,—  a  kind  of  rhymed 


114  HYPERION, 

Ben  Franklin  ?  The  practical  tendency  of  his  mind  wa« 
the  same ;  his  love  of  science  was  the  same ;  his  benig 
nant,  philosophic  spirit  was  the  same  ;  and  avast  number 
of  his  little  poetic  maxims  and  soothsayings  seem  nothing 
more  than  the  worldly  wisdom  of  Poor  Richard,  versified." 

"What  most  offends  me  is,  that  now  every  German 
jackass  must  have  a  kick  at  the  dead  lion." 

"And  every  one  who  passes  through  Weimar  must 
throw  a  book  upon  his  grave,  as  travellers  did  of  old  a 
stone  upon  the  grave  of  Manfredi,  at  Benevento.  But, 
of  all  that  has  been  said  or  sung,  what  most  pleases  me  is 
Heine's  Apologetic,  if  I  may  so  call  it ;  in  which  he  says, 
that  '  the  minor  poets,  who  flourished  under  the  imperial 
reign  of  Goethe,  resemble  a  young  forest,  where  the  trees 
first  show  their  own  magnitude  after  the  oak  of  a  hundred 
years,  whose  branches  had  towered  above  and  overshadowed 
them,  has  fallen.  There  was  not  wanting  an  opposition 
that  strove  against  Goethe,  this  majestic  tree.  Men  of 
the  most  warring  opinions  united  themselves  for  the  con 
test.  The  adherents  of  the  old  faith,  the  orthodox,  were 
vexed  that  in  the  trunk  of  the  vast  tree  no  niche  with  its 
holy  image  was  to  be  found  ;  nay,  that  even  the  naked 
Dryads  of  paganism  were  permitted  to  play  their  witchery 
there  ;  and  gladly,  with  consecrated  axe,  would  they  have 
imitated  the  holy  Boniface,  and  levelled  the  enchanted 
oak  to  the  ground.  The  followers  of  the  new  faith,  the 
apostles  of  Liberalism,  were  vexed,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  the  tree  could  not  serve  as  the  Tree  of  Liberty,  or,  at 
any  rate,  as  a  barricade.  In  fact  the  tree  was  too  high  , 
110  one  could  plant  the  red  cap  upon  its  summit,  or  dance 
the  Carmagnole  beneath  its  branches.  The  multitude, 
however,  venerated  this  tree  for  the  very  reason  that  it 
reared  itself  with  such  independent  grandeur,  and  so 


A  ROMANCE.  115 

graciously  filled  the  world  with  its  odor,  while  its  branches 
streaming  magnificently  toward  heaven  made  it  appear  as 
if  the  stars  were  only  the  golden  fruit  of  its  wondrous 
limbs.'  Don't  you  think  that  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  beautiful.  And  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you 
can  find  something  to  admire  in  my  favorite  author,  not 
withstanding  his  frailties  ;  or,  to  use  an  old  German  say 
ing,  that  you  can  drive  the  hens  out  of  the  garden  with 
out  trampling  down  the  beds." 

"  Here  is  the  old  gentleman  himself  !"  exclaimed  Flem- 
ming. 

"  Where  ?  "  cried  the  Baron,  as  if  for  the  moment  he 
expected  to  see  the  living  figure  of  the  poet  walking  be 
fore  them. 

"  Here  at  the  window, — that  full-length  cast.  Excel 
lent, — is  it  not  ?  He  is  dressed,  as  usual,  in  his  long  yel 
low  nankeen  surtout,  with  a  white  cravat  crossed  in  front. 
What  a  magnificent  head  !  and  what  a  posture  !  He 
stands  like  a  tower  of  strength.  And,  by  Heavens  1  he 
was  nearly  eighty  years  old  when  that  was  made." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  You  can  see  by  the  date  on  the  pedestal." 

"  You  arc  right.  And  yet  how  erect  he  stands,  with 
his  square  shoulders  braced  back,  and  his  hands  /behind 
him  !  He  looks  as  if  he  were  standing  before  the  fire.  I 
feel  tempted  to  put  a  live  coal  into  his  hand,  it  lies  so 
invitingly  half-open.  Gleim's  description  of  him,  soon 
after  he  went  to  Weimar,  is  very  different  from  this.  Do 
you  recollect  it  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not." 

"  It  is  a  story  which  good  old  father  Gleim  used  to  tell 
with  great  delight.  He  was  one  evening  reading  the 
Gottingen  Musen-Almanach  in  a  select  society  at  Wei- 


116  HYPERION. 

mar,  when  a  young  man  came  in,  dressed  in  a  ahort. 
green  shooting-jacket,  booted  and  spurred,  and  having  a 
pair  of  brilliant,  black,  Italian  eyes.  He,  in  turn,  offered 
to  read ;  but  finding,  probably,  the  poetry  of  the  Musen- 
Almanach  of  that  year  rather  too  insipid  for  him,  he 
soon  began  to  improvise  the  wildest  and  most  fantastic 
poems  imaginable,  and  in  all  possible  forms  and  measures, 
pretending  all  the  while  to  read  from  the  book.  '  That 
is  either  Goethe  or  the  Devil,'  said  good  old  Father  Gleim 
to  "Wieland,  who  sat  near  him.  To  which  the  Great  I  of 
Osmannstadt  replied, — 'It  is  both,  for  he  has  the  Devil 
in  him  to-night ;  and  at  such  times  he  is  like  a  wanton 
colt,  that  flings  out  before  and  behind,  and  you  will  do 
well  not  to  go  too  near  him  ! ' ' 

"Very  good!" 

"  And  now  that  noble  figure  is  but  mould.  Only  a  few 
months  ago,  those  majestic  eyes  looked  for  the  last  time 
on  the  light  of  a  pleasant  spring  morning.  Calm,  like  a 
god,  the  old  man  sat ;  and  with  a  smile  seemed  to  bid 
farewell  to  the  light  of  day,  on  which  he  had  gazed  for 
more  than  eighty  years.  Books  were  near  him,  and  the 
pen  which  had  just  dropped,  as  it  were,  from  his  dying 
fingers. — Open  the  shutters,  and  let  in  more  light !  Avere 
the  last  words  that  came  from  those  lips.  Slowly  stretch 
ing  forth  his  hand,  he  seemed  to  write  in  the  air ;  and, 
as  it  sank  down  again  and  was  motionless,  the  spirit  of 
the  old  man  departed." 

1 '  And  yet  the  world  goes  on.  It  is  strange  how  soon, 
when  a  great  man  dies,  his  place  is  filled ;  and  so  com 
pletely,  that  he  seems  no  longer  wanted.  But  let  us  step 
in  here.  I  wish  to  buy  that  cast,  and  send  it  home  to  a 
friend." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    DAYLIGHT    OF    THE    DWARFS,    AND    THE    FALLIJW 

STAB. 

A  FTER  lingering  a  day  or  two  in  Frankfort,  the  two 
-£-*-  friends  struck  across  through  Hochheim  to  the 
Rhine,  and  up  among  the  hills  of  the  Rheingau  to 
Schlangenbad,  where  they  tarried  only  to  bathe  and  to 
dine,  and  then  pursued  their  way  to  Langenschwalbach. 
The  town  lies  in  a  valley,  with  gently  sloping  hills  around 
it,  and  long  avenues  of  poplars  leading  forth  into  the 
fields.  One  interminable  street  cuts  the  town  in  twain, 
and  there  are  old  houses  with  curious  faces  carved  upon 
their  fronts,  and  dates  of  the  olden  time. 

Our  travellers  soon  sallied  forth  from  their  hotel,  im 
patient  to  drink  the  strength-giving  waters  of  the  foun 
tains.  They  continued  their  walk  far  up  the  valley 
under  the  poplars.  The  new  grain  was  waving  in  the 
fields ;  the  birds  singing  in  the  trees  and  in  the  air ; 
and  everything  seemed  glad,  save  a  poor  old  man,  who 
came  tottering  out  of  the  woods,  with  a  heavy  bundle  of 
sticks  on  his  shoulders. 

Returning  upon  their  steps,  they  passed  down  the 
ralley  and  through  the  long  street  to  the  tumble-down 
old  Lutheran  church.  A  flight  of  stone  steps  leads  from 
the  street  to  the  green  terrace  or  platform  on  which  the 
church  stands,  and  which  in  ancient  times  was  the 
church-yard,  or,  as  'the  Germans  more  devoutly  say, 

in 


118  HYPERION, 

God's-acre ;  where  generations  are  scattered  like  seeds, 
and  that  which  is  sown  in  corruption  shall  be  raised 
hereafter  in  incorruption.  On  the  steps  stood  an  old 
man, — a  very  old  man, — holding  a  little  girl  by  the 
hand.  He  took  off  his  greasy  cap  as  they  passed,  and 
wished  them  good  day.  His  teeth  were  gone  ;  he  could 
hardly  articulate  a  syllable.  The  Baron  asked  him  how 
old  the  church  was.  He  gave  no  answer  ;  but  when  the 
question  was  repeated,  came  close  up  to  them,  and,  taking 
off  his  cap  again,  turned  his  ear  attentively,  and  said  : — 

"I  am  hard  of  hearing." 

"  Poor  old  man,"  said  Flemming  ;  "  he  is  as  much  a 
ruin  as  the  church  we  are  entering.  It  will  not  be  long 
before  he,  too,  shall  be  sown  as  seed  in  this  God's-acre  ! " 

The  little  girl  ran  into  a  house  close  at  hand,  and 
brought  out  the  great  key.  The  church-door  swung 
open,  and,  descending  a  few  steps,  they  passed  through  a 
low-roofed  passage  into  the  church.  All  was  in  ruin.  The 
gravestones  in  the  pavement  were  started  from  their 
places ;  the  vaults  beneath  yawned ;  the  roof  above  was 
falling  piecemeal ;  there  were  rents  in  the  old  tower  ;  and 
mysterious  passages,  and  side  doors  with  crazy  flights  of 
wooden  steps,  leading  down  into  the  church-yard.  Amid 
all  this  ruin,  one  thing  only  stood  erect ;  it  was  a  statue 
of  a  knight  in  armor,  standing  in  a  niche  under  the 
pulpit. 

"Who  is  this?"  said  Flemming  to  the  old  sexton; 
"  who  is  this,  that  stands  here  so  solemnly  in  marble, 
and  seems  to  be  keeping  guard  over  the  dead  men 
below  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  old  man  ;  "but  I  have 
heard  my  grandfather  say  it  was  the  statue  of  a  great 
warrior  1 " 


A  ROMANCE.  119 

"  There  is  history  for  you  ! "  exclaimed  the  Baron. 
"  Tliere  is  fame  !  To  have  a  statue  of  marble,  and  yet 
have  your  name  forgotten  by  the  sexton  of  your  parish, 
who  can  remember  only  that  he  once  heard  his  grand 
father  say  that  you  were  a  great  warrior  ! " 

Flemming  made  no  reply,  for  he  was  thinking  of  the 
days,  Avhen,  from  the  old  pulpit,  some  bold  reformer 
thundered  down  the  first  tidings  of  a  new  doctrine,  and 
the  roof  echoed  with  the  grand  old  hymn  of  Martin 
Luther. 

When  he  communicated  his  thoughts  to  the  Baron,  the 
only  answer  he  received  was  : — 

"After  all,  what  is  the  use  of  so  much  preaching  ?  Do 
you  think  the  fishes  that  heard  the  sermon  of  St.  An 
thony  were  any  better  than  those  who  did  not  ?  I 
commend  to  your  favorable  notice  the  fish-sermon  of  this 
saint,  as  recorded  by  Abraham  a  Santa  Clara.  You  will 
find  it  in  your  favorite  Wonder-Horn." 

Thus  passed  the  day  at  Langenschwalbach  ;  and  the 
evening  at  the  Allee-Saal  was  quite  solitary  ;  for  as  yet  no 
company  had  arrived  to  fill  its  chambers,  or  sit  under  the 
trees  before  the  door.  The  next  morning  even  Flemming 
and  the  Baron  were  gone ;  for  the  German's  heart  was 
beating  with  strong  desire  to  embrace  his  sister ;  and  the 
heart  of  his  friend  cared  little  whither  he  went,  sobeit  he 
were  not  too  much  alone. 

After  a  few  hours'  drive,  they  were  looking  down  from 
the  summit  of  a  hill  right  upon  the  house-tops  of  Ems. 
There  it  lay,  deep  sunk  in  the  hollow  beneath  them, 
as  if  some  inhabitants  of  Sirius,  like  him  spoken  of  in 
Voltaire's  tale  of  Micromegas,  held  it  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand.  High  and  peaked  rise  the  hills  that  throw  their 
shadows  into  this  romantic  valley,  and  at  their  base 


120  HYPERION, 

winds  the  river  Lalm.  Our  travellers  drove  through  the 
one  long  street  composed  entirely  of  hotels  and  lodging- 
houses.  Sick  people  looked  out  of  the  windows  as  they 
passed.  Others  were  walking  leisurely  up  and  down,  be 
neath  the  few  decapitated  trees,  which  represent  a  public 
promenade ;  and  a  boy,  with  a  blue  frock  and  crimson 
cap,  was  driving  three  donkeys  down  the  street.  In  short, 
they  were  in  a  fashionable  watering-place  ;  as  yet 
sprinkled  only  by  a  few  pattering  drops  of  the  sum 
mer  rain  of  strangers,  which  generally  follows  the  first 
hot  days. 

On  alighting  at  the  London  Hotel,  the  Baron  found — 
not  his  sister,  but  only  a  letter  from  her,  saying  she  had 
changed  her  mind  and  gone  to  the  Baths  of  Franconia. 
This  was  a  disappointment,  which  the  Baron  pocketed 
with  the  letter,  and  said  not  a  word  more  about  either.  It 
was  his  way, — his  life-philosophy  in  small  things  and 
great.  In  the  evening,  they  went  to  an  aesthetic  tea,  at 
the  house  of  the  Frau  Kranich,  the  wife  of  a  rich  banker 
of  Frankfort. 

"  I  must  tell  you  about  this  Frau  Kranich,"  said  the 
Baron  to  Flemiiiing,  on  the  way.  "  She  is  a  woman  of 
talent  and  beauty,  and  just  in  the  prime  of  life  ;  but,  un 
fortunately,  very  ambitious.  Her  mania  is  to  make  a 
figure  in  the  fashionable  world  ;  and  to  this  end  she  mar 
ried  a  rich  banker  of  Frankfort,  old  enough  to  be  her 
father,  not  to  say  her  grandfather,  hoping,  doubtless, 
that  he  would  soon  die  ;  for,  if  ever  a  woman  wished  to  be 
a  widow,  she  is  that  woman.  But  the  old  fellow  is  tough 
and  won't  die.  Moreover,  he  is  deaf,  and  crabbed,  and 
penurious,  and  half  the  time  bedridden.  The  wife  is  a 
model  of  virtue,  notwithstanding  her  weakness.  She 
nurses  the  old  gentleman  as  if  he  were  a  child.  And,  to 


A  HOMANCM.  121 

crown  aJ.  lie  hates  society,  and  will  not  hear  of  his  wife's 
receiving  or  going  into  company." 

"  How,  then,  can  she  give  soirees  ?  "  asked  Flemming. 

"I  was  just  going  to  tell  you,"  continued  the  Baron. 
"  The  gay  lady  has  no  taste  for  long  evenings  with  the  old 
gentleman  in  the  back  chamber, — for  being  thus  chained 
like  a  criminal  under  Mezentius,  face  to  face  with  a 
dead  body.  So  she  puts  him  to  bed  first,  and " 

"Gives  him  opium." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  ;  and  then  gives  herself  a  tea-party, 
without  his  knowing  anything  about  it.  This  course  of 
deception  is  truly  hateful  in  itself,  and  must  be  particu 
larly  so  to  her,  for  she  is  not  a  low  or  an  immoral  woman  ; 
but  one  of  those,  who,  not  having  strength  enough  to  com 
plete  the  sacrifice  they  have  had  strength  enough  to  com 
mence,  are  betrayed  into  a  life  of  duplicity  and  falsehood." 

They  had  now  reached  the  house,  and  were  ushered 
into  a  room  gayly  lighted  and  filled  with  guests.  The 
hostess  came  forward  to  receive  them,  dressed  in  white, 
and  sailing  down  the  room  like  a  swan.  When  the  cus 
tomary  salutations  had  passed  and  Flemming  had  been 
duly  presented,  the  Baron  said,  not  without  a  certain  de 
gree  of  malice  : — 

"And,  my  dear  Frau  Kranich,  how  is  your  good  hus 
band  to-night  ?" 

This  question  was  about  as  discreet  as  a  cannon-ball. 
But  the  lady  replied,  in  the  simplicity  of  her  heart,  and 
not  in  the  least  disconcerted  : — 

"  The  same  as  ever,  my  dear  Baron.  It  is  astonishing 
how  he  holds  out.  But  let  us  not  talk  of  these  things 
now.  I  must  introduce  your  friend  to  his  countryman, 
the  Grand  Duke  of  Mississippi ;  alike  remarkable  for  his 
wealth,  his  modesty,  and  the  extreme  simplicity  of  his 


1^  HYPERION, 

manrers.  He  drives  only  six  liorses.  Besides,  he  is 
known  as  a  man  of  learning  and  piety, — has  his  private 
chapel,  and  private  clergyman,  who  always  preaches 
against  the  vanity  of  worldly  riches.  He  has  also  a  pri 
vate  secretary,  whose  sole  duty  is  to  smoke  to  him,  that 
he  may  enjoy  the  aroma  of  Spanish  cigars,  without  the 
trouble  of  smoking." 

"  Decidedly  a  man  of  genius  ! " 

Here  Flemming  was  introduced  to  his  illustrious  coun 
tryman  ;  a  person  who  seemed  to  consist  chiefly  of  linen, 
such  a  display  did  he  make  of  collar,  bosom,  and  wrist 
bands. 

"Pray,  Mr.  Flemming,  what  do  you  think  of  that 
Rembrandt  ?  "  said  he,  pointing  to  a  picture  on  the  wall. 
"Exquisite  picture!  The  grandeur  of  sentiment  and 
splendor  of  chiaroscuro  are  of  the  first  order.  Just  ob 
serve  the  liquidity  of  the  water,  and  the  silveriness  of  the 
clouds  !  Great  power  !  There  is  a  bravura  of  handling 
in  that  picture,  Sir,  which  it  requires  the  eye  of  the  con 
noisseur  to  appreciate." 

"Yes,  a  most  undoubted — copy  !" 

And  here  their  conversation  ended  ;  for  at  that  mo 
ment  the  little  Moldavian  Prince  Jerkin  made  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  with  his  snuff-box  as  usual  in  his 
hand,  and  hurried  up  to  Flemming,  whom  he  had  known 
in  Heidelberg.  He  was  eager  to  let  every  one  know  that 
he  spoke  English,  and  in  his  haste  began  by  making  a 
mistake. 

"Good  bye  !  Good  bye  !  Mr.  Flemming!"  said  he, 
instead  of  good  evening.  "  I  am  ravished  to  see  you  in 
Ems.  Nice  place  ; — all  that  there  is  of  most  nice.  I  drink 
my  water  and  am  good !  Do  you  not  think  the  Frau 
Kranich  has  a  very  beautiful  leather  ?  " 


A  ROMANCE.  123 

He  meant  skin.  Flemming  laughed  outright ;  but  it 
was  not  perceived  by  the  Prince,  because  at  that  moment 
he  was  pushed  aside,  in  the  rush  of  a  gallopade,  and 
Flemming  beheld  his  face  no  more.  At  the  same  mo 
ment  the  Baron  introduced  a  friend  of  his,  who  also  spoke 
English  and  said  : — 

"  You  will  sup  with  me  to-night.  I  have  some  Rhine- 
wine,  which  will  be  a  seduction  to  you." 

Soon  after,  the  Baron  stood,  with  an  impassioned,  ro 
mantic  lady  leaning  on  his  arm,  examining  a  copy  of 
Raphael's  Fornarina. 

"  Ach  !  I  wish  I  had  been  the  Fornarina,"  sighed  the 
impassioned,  romantic  lady. 

"  Then,  my  dear  madam,"  replied  the  Baron,  "  I  wish 
I  had  been  Raphael." 

And  so  likewise  said  to  himself  a  very  tall  man  with 
fiery  red  hair  and  fancy  whiskers,  who  was  waltzing  round 
and  round  in  one  -spot,  and  in  a  most  extraordinary 
waistcoat ;  thus  representing  a  fiery  floating-light,  to 
warn  men  of  the  hidden  rocks  on  which  the  breath  of 
vanity  drives  them  shipwreck.  At  length  his  partner, 
tired  of  spinning,  sank  upon  a  sofa,  like  a  child's  top, 
when  it  reels  and  falls. 

"  You  do  not  like  the  waltz  ?  "  said  an  elderly  French 
gentleman,  remarking  the  expression  of  Flemming's  coun 
tenance. 

"  0  yes  ;  among  the  figurantes  of  the  opera.  But  I 
confess  it  sometimes  makes  me  shudder  to  see  a  young 
rake  clasp  his  arms  round  the  waist  of  a  pure  and  inno- 
cynt  girl.  What  would  you  say,  were  you  to  see  him  sitting 
on  a  sofa  with  his  arms  round  your  wife  ? " 

"Mere  prejudice  of  education,"  replied  the  French 
gentlemen.  "  I  know  that  situation.  I  have  read  all 
about  it  in  the  Bibliotheque  de  Romans  Choisis!" 


tlTPERION, 

And  merrily  went  the  dance ;    and  bright  eyes  and 
flushed  cheeks  were  not  wanting  among  the  dancers  j 

"  And  they  waxed  red,  and  waxed  warm, 
And  rested,  panting,  arm  in  arm  "  ; 

and  the  Strauss-waltzes  sounded  pleasantly  in  the  ears  of 
Flemming  who,  though  he  never  danced,  yet,  like  Henry 
of  Ofterdingen,  in  the  romance  of  Novalis,  thought  to 
music.  The  wheeling  waltz  set  the  wheels  of  his  fancy 
going.  And  thus  the  moments  glided  on,  and  the  foot 
steps  of  Time  were  not  heard  amid  the  sound  of  music 
and  voices. 

But  suddenly  this  scene  of  gayety  was  interrupted. 
The  door  opened  wide  ;  and  the  short  figure  of  a  gray- 
haired  old  man  presented  itself,  with  a  flushed  counten 
ance  and  wild  eyes.  He  was  but  half  dressed,  and  in  his 
hand  held  a  silver  candlestick  without  a  light.  A  sheet 
was  wound  round  his  head,  like  a  turban  ;  and  he  tot 
tered  forward  with  a  vacant,  bewildered  look,  exclaim 
ing:— 

"  I  am  Mahomet,  the  king  of  the  Jews  ! " 

At  the  same  moment  he  fell  in  a  swoon,  and  was  borne 
out  of  the  room,  by  the  servants.  Flemming  looked  at 
the  lady  of  the  festival,  and  she  was  deadly  pale.  For  a 
moment,  all  was  confusion  ;  and  the  dance  and  the  mus^c 
stopped.  The  impression  produced  on  the  company  was 
at  once  ludicrous  and  awful.  They  tried  in  vain  to  rally. 
The  whole  society  was  like  a  dead  body,  from  which  the 
spirit  has  departed.  Erelong,  the  guests  had  all  dis 
persed,  and  left  the  lady  of  the  mansion  to  her  mournful, 
expiring  lamps,  and  still  more  mournful  reflections. 

"  Truly,"  said  Flemming  to  the  Baron,  as  they  wended 


A  ROMANCE.  125 

their  way  homeward,  "  this  seems  not  like  reality ;  but 
like  one  of  the  sharp  contrasts  we  find  in  novels.  Whj 
shall  say,  after  this,  that  there  is  not  more  romance  ir 
real  life  than  we  find  written  in  books  ?  " 

"  Not  more  romance,"  said  the  Baron,  "  but  a  different 
romance." 

A  still  more  tragic  scene  had  been  that  evening  enacted 
in  Heidelberg.  Just  as  the  sun  set,  two  female  figures 
walked  along  the  romantic  woodland  pathway,  leading  to 
the  Angel's  Meadow,  a  little  green  opening  on  the  brow  of 
one  of  the  high  hills  which  see  themselves  in  the  Neckar 
and  hear  the  solemn  bells  of  Kloster-Neuburg.  Tha 
evening  shadows  were  falling  broad  and  long ;  and  thr, 
cuckoo  began  to  sing. 

"  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  ! w  said  the  eldest  of  the  two  figures, 
repeating  an  old  German  popular  rhyme, — 

"  '  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  ! 
Tell  me  true, 
Tell  me  fair  and  fine, 
How  long  must  1  unmarried  pine  ?"* 

It  was  the  voice  of  an  evil  spirit  that  spoke  in  the  per 
son  of  Madeleine  ;  and  the  pale  and  shrinking  figure  tha'j 
walked  by  her  side,  and  listened  to  those  words,  was 
Emma  of  Ilmenau.  A  young  man  joined  them,  where 
the  path  turns  into  the  thick  woodlands  ;  and  they  dis 
appeared  among  the  shadowy  branches.  It  was  the 
Polish  Count. 

The  forget-me-nots  looked  up  to  heaven  with  their 
meek  blue  eyes,  from  their  home  in  Angel's  Meadow 
Calmly  stood  the  mountain  of  All-Saints,  in  its  majestic, 
holy  stillness ; — the  river  flowed  so  far  below,  that  tb« 


126  HYPERION. 

murmur  of  its  waters  was  not  heard  ; — there  was  not  a 
sigh  of  the  eyening  wind  among  the  leaves,  not  a  sound 
upon  the  earth  nor  in  the  air ; — and  yet  that  night  there 
fell  a  star  from  heaven  1 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   PARTING. 

IT  was  now  that  season  of  the  year  which  an  old  Eng 
lish  writer  calls  the  amiable  month  of  June,  and  at 
that  hour  of  the  day,  when,  face  to  face,  the  rising  moon 
beholds  the  setting  sun.  As  yet  the  stars  were  few  in 
heaven.  But,  after  the  heat  of  the  day,  the  coolness  and 
the  twilight  descended  like  a  benediction  upon  the  earth, 
by  all  those  gentle  sounds  attended  which  are  the  meek 
companions  of  the  night. 

Flemming  and  the  Baron  had  passed  the  afternoon  at 
the  Castle.  They  had  rambled  once  more  together,  and 
for  the  last  time,  over  the  magnificent  ruin.  On  the 
morrow  they  were  to  part,  perhaps  forever.  The  Baron 
was  going  to  Berlin,  to  join  his  sister ;  and  Flemming, 
driven  forward  by  the  restless  spirit  within  him,  longed 
once  more  for  a  change  of  scene,  and  was  going  to  Tyrol 
and  Switzerland.  Alas  !  he  never  said  to  the  passing 
hour,  "Stay,  for  thou  art  fair!"  but  reached  forward 
into  the  dark  future,  with  unsatisfied  longings  and  aim 
less  desires  that  were  never  still. 

As  the  day  was  closing,  they  sat  down  on  the  terrace 
of  Elizabeth's  Garden.  The  sun  had  set  beyond  the  blue 
Alsatian  hills ;  and  on  the  valley  of  the  Ehine  fell  the 
purple  mist,  like  the  mantle  of  the  departing  prophet 
from  his  fiery  chariot.  Over  the  castle  walls  and  the 
trees  of  the  garden  rose  the  large  moon ;  and  between 

137 


128    .  HYPERION, 

the  contending  daylight  and  moonlight  there  were  as  yet 
no  shadows.  But  at  length  the  shadows  came, — trans 
parent  and  faint  outlines,  that  deepened  into  form.  In 
the  valley  below  only  the  river  gleamed,  like  steel ;  and 
here  and  there  the  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  town.  Sol 
emnly  stood  the  leafy  linden-trees  in  the  garden  near 
them,  their  trunks  in  darkness  and  their  summits 
bronzed  with  moonlight ;  and  in  his  niche  in  the  great 
round  tower,  overhung  with  ivy,  like  a  majestic  phantom, 
stood  the  gray  statue  of  Louis,  with  his  venerable  beard,  and 
shirt  of  mail,  and  flowing  mantle  ;  and  the  mild,  majestic 
countenance  looked  forth  into  the  silent  night,  as  the 
countenance  of  a  seer  who  reads  the  stars.  At  intervals, 
the  wind  of  the  summer  night  passed  through  the  ruined 
castle  and  the  trees,  and  they  sent  forth  a  sound  as  if 
Nature  were  sighing  in  her  dreams  ;  and  for  a  moment, 
overhead,  the  broad  leaves  gently  clashed  together,  like 
brazen  cymbals,  with  a  tinkling  sound  ;  and  then  all  was 
still,  save  the  sweet,  passionate  song  of  nightingales,  that 
nowhere  sing  more  sweetly  than  in  the  gardens  of  Heid 
elberg  Castle. 

The  hour,  the  scene,  and  the  near-approaching  separa 
tion  of  the  two  young  friends,  had  filled  their  hearts  with 
a  pleasant,  though  at  the  same  time  not  painless  excite 
ment.  They  had  been  conversing  about  the  magnificent 
old  ruin,  and  the  ages  in  which  it  had  been  built,  and  the 
vicissitudes  of  time  and  war,  that  had  battered  down  its 
walls,  and  left  it  "tenantless,  save  to  the  crannying 
wind." 

"  How  sorrowful  and  sublime  is  the  face  of  that  statue 
yonder  !  "  said  Flemming.  "  It  reminds  me  of  the  old 
Danish  hero  Beowulf ;  for  careful,  sorrowing,  he  seeth 
in  his  son's  bower  the  wine-hall  deserted,  the  resort  of  the 


A  ROMANCE.  129 

wind,  noiseless ;  the  knight  sleepeth ;  the  warrior  lieth 
in  darkness  ;  there  is  no  noise  of  the  harp,  no  joy  in  the 
dwellings,  as  there  was  before." 

"Even  as  you  say,"  replied  the  Baron  ;  "but  it  often 
astonishes  me,  that,  coming  from  that  fresh  green  world 
of  yours  beyond  the  sea,  you  should  feel  so  much  interest 
in  these  old  things  ;  nay,  at  times  seem  so  to  have  drunk 
in  their  spirit,  as  really  to  live  in  the  times  of  old.  For 
my  part,  I  do  not  see  what  charm  there  is  in  the  pale  and 
wrinkled  countenance  of  the  Past,  so  to  entice  the  soul  of 
a  young  man.  It  seems  to  me  like  falling  in  love  with 
one's  grandmother.  Give  me  the  Present, — warm,  glow 
ing,  palpitating  with  life.  She  is  my  mistress  ;  and  the 
Future  stands  waiting  like  my  wife  that  is  to  be, — for 
whom,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  care  very  little  just  now.  In 
deed,  my  friend,  I  wish  you  would  take  more  heed  of  this 
philosophy  of  mine ;  and  not  waste  the  golden  hours  of 
youth  in  vain  regrets  for  the  past,  and  indefinite,  dim 
longings  for  the  future.  Youth  comes  but  once  in  a  life 
time." 

"  Therefore,"  said  Flemming,  "  let  us  so  enjoy  it  as  to 
be  still  young  when  we  are  old.  For  my  part,  I  grow 
happier  as  I  grow  older.  When  I  compare  my  sensations 
and  enjoyments  now  with  what  they  were  ten  years  ago, 
the  comparison  is  vastly  in  favor  of  the  present.  Much 
of  the  fever  and  fretfulness  of  life  is  over.  The  world 
and  I  look  each  other  more  calmly  in  the  face.  My  mind 
is  more  self-possessed.  It  has  done  me  good  to  be  some 
what  parched  by  the  heat  and  drenched  by  the  rain  of 
life." 

"  Now  you  speak  like  an  old  philosopher,"  answered  the 
Baron,  laughing.  "But  you  deceive  yourself.  I  never 
knew  a  more  restless,  feverish  spirit  than  yours.  Do  not 

9 


130  HYPERION, 

think  you  have  gained  the  mastery  yet.  You  are  only 
riding  at  anchor  here  in  an  eddy  of  the  stream  ;  you  will 
soon  be  swept  away  again  in  the  mighty  current  and  whirl  of 
accident.  Do  not  trust  this  momentary  calm.  I  know 
you  better  than  you  know  yourself.  There  is  something 
Faust-like  in  you  ;  you  would  fain  grasp  the  highest  and 
the  deepest,  and  reel  from  desire  to  enjoyment,  and  in 
enjoyment  languish  for  desire.  When  a  momentary 
change  of  feeling  comes  over  you,  you  think  the  change 
permanent,  and  thus  live  in  constant  self-deception." 

"  I  confess,"  said  Flemming,  "  there  maybe  some  truth 
in  what  you  say.  There  are  times  when  my  soul  is  rest 
less  ;  and  a  voice  sounds  within  me,  like  the  trump  of  the 
archangel,  and  thoughts  that  were  buried,  long  ago,  come 
out  of  their  graves.  At  such  times  my  favorite  occupa 
tions  and  pursuits  no  longer  charm  me.  The  quiet  face 
of  Nature  seems  to  mock  me." 

"  There  certainly  are  seasons,"  replied  the  Baron, 
"  when  Nature  seems  not  to  sympathize  with  her  beloved 
children.  She  sits  there  so  eternally  calm  and  self- 
possessed,  so  very  motherly  and  serene,  and  cares  so  little 
whether  the  heart  of  her  child  breaks  or  not,  that  at  times 
I  almost  lose  my  patience.  About  that,  too,  she  cares  so 
little,  that,  out  of  sheer  obstinacy,  I  become  good-humored 
again,  and  then  she  smiles." 

"  I  think  we  must  confess,  however,"  continued  Flem 
ming,  "  that  all  this  springs  from  our  own  imperfection, 
not  from  hers.  How  beautiful  is  this  green  world  which 
we  inhabit !  See  yonder,  how  the  moonlight  mingles  with 
the  mist !  "What  a  glorious  night  is  this  !  Truly,  every 
man  has  a  Paradise  around  him,  until  he  sins,  and  the 
angel  of  an  accusing  conscience  drives  him  from  his 
Eden.  And  even  then  there  are  holy  hours,  when  thia 


A  ROMANCE.  131 

angel  sleeps,  and  man  comes  back,  and,  with  the  innocent 
eyes  of  a  child,  looks  into  his  lost  Paradise  again, — into 
the  broad  gates  and  rural  solitudes  of  Nature.  I  feel 
this  often.  We  have  much  to  enjoy  in  the  quiet  and 
retirement  of  our  own  thoughts.  Boisterous  mirth  and 
loud  laughter  are  not  my  mood.  I  love  that  tranquillity 
of  soul,  in  which  we  feel  the  blessing  of  existence,  and 
which  in  itself  is  a  prayer  and  a  thanksgiving.  I  find, 
however,  that,  as  I  grow  older,  I  love  the  country  less, 
and  the  city  more." 

"Yes,"  interrupted  the  Baron;  "and  presently  you 
will  love  the  city  less  and  the  country  more.  Say  at  once, 
that  you  have  an  undefined  longing  for  both  ;  and  prefer 
town  or  country,  according  to  the  mood  you  are  in.  I 
think  a  man  must  be  of  a  very  quiet  and  happy  nature, 
who  can  long  endure  the  country ;  and,  moreover,  very 
well  contented  with  his  own  insignificant  person,  very 
gelf-complacent,  to  be  continually  occupied  with  himself 
and  his  own  thoughts.  To  say  the  least,  a  town  life  makes 
one  more  tolerant  and  liberal  in  one's  judgment  of  others. 
One  is  not  eternally  wrapped  up  in  self -contemplation  ; 
which,  after  all,  is  only  a  more  holy  kind  of  vanity." 

In  conversation  like  this,  the  hours  glided  away ;  till  at 
length,  from  the  Giant's  Tower,  the  castle  clock  struck 
twelve,  with  a  sound  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  Mid 
dle  Ages.  Like  watchmen  from  their  belfries,  the  city 
clocks  answered  it,  one  by  one.  Then  distant  and 
muffled  sounds  were  heard.  Inarticulate  words  seemed 
to  blot  the  foggy  air,  as  if  written  on  wet  paper.  These 
were  the  bells  of  Handschuhsheimer,  and  of  other  villages 
on  the  broad  plain  of  the  Ehine  and  among  the  hills  of  the 
Odenwald ;  mysterious  sounds,  that  seemed  not  of  this 
World. 


132  HYPERION, 

Beneath  them,  in  the  shadow  of  the  hills,  lay  the  val« 
ley,  like  a  fathomless,  black,  gulf  ;  and  above  were  the  clois* 
tered  stars,  that,  nun-like,  walk  the  holy  aisles  of  heaven. 
The  city  was  asleep  in  the  valley  below  ;  all  asleep  and 
silent,  save  the  clocks,  that  had  just  struck  twelve,  and 
the  veering,  golden  weathercocks,  that  were  swimming  in 
the  moonlight,  like  golden  fishes  in  a  glass  vase.  And 
again  the  wind  of  the  summer  night  passed  through  the 
old  castle  and  the  trees,  and  the  nightingales  recorded 
under  the  dark,  shadowy  leaves,  and  the  heart  of  Flem- 
ming  was  full. 

When  he  had  retired  to  his  chamber,  a  feeling  of  utter 
loneliness  came  over  him.  The  night  before  one  begins  a 
journey  is  always  a  dismal  night ;  for,  as  Byron  says, 

"  In  leaving  even  the  most  unpleasant  people 
And  places,  one  keeps  looking  at  the  steeple  !  " 

and  how  much  more  so  when  the  place  and  people  are 
pleasant  !  as  was  the  case  with  those  that  Fleniming  was 
now  leaving.  No  wonder  he  was  sad  and  sleepless. 
Thoughts  came  and  went,  and  bright  and  gloomy  fancies, 
and  dreams  and  visions,  and  sweet  faces  looked  under  his 
closed  eyelids,  and  vanished  away,  and  came  again,  and 
again  departed.  He  heard  the  clock  strike  from  hour  to 
hour,  and  said,  "  Another  hour  is  gone."  At  length  tho 
birds  began  to  sing ;  and  ever  and  anon  the  cock  crew. 
He  arose  and  looked  forth  into  the  gray  dawn  ;  and  be 
fore  him  lay  the  city  he  was  soon  to  leave,  all  white  and 
ghastly,  like  a  city  that  had  arisen  from  its  grave. 

"  All  things  must  change,"  said  he  to  the  Baron,  as 
he  embraced  him,  and  held  him  by  the  hand.  "  Friends 
must  be  torn  asunder,  and  swept  along  in  the  current  of 
events,  to  see  each  other  seldom,  and  perchance  no  morn, 


A  ROMANCE.  133 

For  ever  and  over  in  the  eddies  of  time  and  accident  we 
whirl  away.  Besides  which,  some  of  us  have  a  perpetual 
motion  in  our  wooden  heads,  as  Wodenblock  had  in  his 
wooden  leg  ;  and  like  him  we  travel  on,  without  rest  or 
sleep,  and  have  hardly  time  to  take  a  friend  by  the  hand 
in  passing  ;  and  at  length  are  seen  hurrying  through  some 
iistant  land,  worn  to  a  skeleton,  and  all  unknown." 


BOOK    THE    THIRD. 
CHAPTER  I. 

SUMMER-TIME. 

r  I  ^HEY  were  right, — those  old  German  Minnesingei-s, 
J-  — to  sing  the  pleasant  summer-time  !  What  a  time 
it  is  !  How  June  stands  illuminated  in  the  calendar ! 
The  windows  are  all  wide  open  ;  only  the  Venetian  hlinds 
closed.  Here  and  there  a  long  streak  of  sunshine  streams 
in  through  a  crevice.  We  hear  the  low  sound  of  the  wind 
among  the  trees  ;  and,  as  it  swells  and  freshens,  the  distant 
doors  clap  to,  with  a  sudden  sound.  The  trees  are  heavy 
with  leaves ;  and  the  gardens  full  of  blossoms,  red  and 
white.  The  whole  atmosphere  is  laden  with  perfume  and 
sunshine.  The  birds  sing.  The  cock  struts  about,  and 
crows  loftily.  Insects  chirp  in  the  grass.  Yellow  but 
tercups  stud  the  green  carpet  like  golden  buttons,  and 
the  red  blossoms  of  the  clover  like  rubies.  The  elm-trees 
roach  their  long,  pendulous  branches  almost  to  the  ground. 
White  clouds  sail  aloft ;  and  vapors  fret  the  blue  sky  with 
silver  threads.  The  white  village  gleams  afar  against  the 
dark  hills.  Through  the  meadow  winds  the  river, — care 
less,  indolent.  It  seems  to  love  the  country,  and  is  in 
no  haste  to  reach  the  sea.  The  bee  only  is  at  work, — the 
hot  and  angry  bee.  All  things  else  are  at  play  ;  he  never 
plays,  and  is  vexed  that  any  one  should. 

135 


130  HYPERION, 

People  drive  out  from  town  to  breathe,  and  to  be  hap 
py.  Most  of  them  have  flowers  in  their  hands  ;  bunches 
cf  apple-blossoms,  and  still  oftener  lilacs.  Ye  denizens 
of  the  crowded  city,  how  pleasant  to  you  is  the  change 
from  the  sultry  streets  to  the  open  fields,  fragrant  with 
clover-blossoms  !  how  pleasant  the  fresh,  breezy  country 
air,  dashed  witli  brine  from  the  meadows  !  how  pleasant, 
above  all,  the  flowers,  the  manifold,  beautiful  flowers  ! 

It  is  no  longer  day.  Through  the  trees  rises  the  red 
moon,  and  the  stars  are  scarcely  seen.  In  the  vast  shadow 
of  night,  the  coolness  and  the  dews  descend.  I  sit  at  the 
open  window  to  enjoy  them  ;  and  hear  only  the  voice  of 
the  summer  wind.  Like  black  hulks,  the  shadows  of  the 
great  trees  ride  at  anchor  on  the  billowy  sea  of  grass.  I 
cannot  see  the  red  and  blue  flowers,  but  I  know  that  they 
are  there.  Far  away  in  the  meadow  gleams  the  silver 
Charles.  The  tramp  of  horses'  hoofs  sounds  from  the 
wooden  bridge.  Then  all  is  still,  save  the  continuous  wind 
of  the  summer  night.  Sometimes  I  know  not  if  it  be 
the  wind,  or  the  sound  of  the  neighboring  sea.  The  vil 
lage  clock  strikes  ;  and  I  feel  that  I  am  not  alone. 

How  different  is  it  in  the  city  !  It  is  late,  and  the 
crowd  is  gone.  You  step  out  upon  the  balcony,  and  lie 
in  the  very  bosom  of  the  cool,  dewy  night,  as  if  you 
folded  her  garments  about  you.  The  whole  starry  heaven 
is  spread  out  overhead.  Beneath  lies  the  public  walk 
with  trees,  like  a  fathomless,  black  gulf,  into  whose  silent 
darkness  the  spirit  plunges  and  floats  away,  with  some 
beloved  spirit  clasped  in  its  embrace.  The  lamps  are  still 
burning  up  and  down  the  long  street.  People  go  by, 
with  grotesque  shadows,  now  foreshortened,  and  now 
lengthening  away  into  the  darkness  and  vanishing,  while 
a  new  one  springs  up  behind  the  walker,  and  seems  to 


A  ROMANCE.  137 

pass  him  on  the  sidewalk.  The  iron  gates  of  the  park 
shut  with  a  jangling  clang.  There  are  footsteps  and  loud 
voices  ; — a  tumult, — a  drunken  brawl, — an  alarm  of  fire  ; 
• — then  silence  again.  And  now  at  length  the  city  is 
asleep,  and  we  can  see  the  night.  The  belated  moon 
looks  over  the  roofs,  and  finds  no  one  to  welcome  her. 
The  moonlight  is  broken.  It  lies  here  and  there  in  the 
squares,  and  the  openings  of  streets, — angular,  like  blocks 
of  white  marble. 


\Jnder  such  a  green,  triumphal  arch,  0  Reauc?,  with 
the  odor  of  flowers  about  thee,  Jid  the  song  of  birds, 
slialt  thou  pass  omvard  into  the  enchanted  land,  as 
through  the  Tvory  Gate  of  dreams  !  \nd  >°  a  prelude 
and  majestic  march,  one  sweet  human  Mce^,  i  mow  not 
whose,  but  coming  from  the  bosom  o^  the  Alps,  sings 
this  sublime  ode,  which  the  Alpine  echoes  repeat  afar. 


Come,  golden  Evening  !    In  the  west 

Enthrone  the  storm-dispelling  sun, 
And  let  the  triple  rainbow  rest 

O'er  all  the  mountain-tops.     'Tis  done  ;— 
The  tempest  ceases  ;  bold  and  bright, 

The  rainbow  shoots  from  hill  to  hill  ; 
Down  sinks  the  sun  ;  on  presses  night  ;-— 

Mont  Blanc  is  lovely  still  I 


"  There  take  thy  stand,  my  spirit  ; — spread 

The  world  of  shadows  at  thy  feet  ; 
And  mark  how  calmly,  overhead, 
,     The  stars,  like  saints  in  glory,  meet. 


138  HYPERION, 

While  hid  in  solitude  sublime, 
Methinks  I  muse  on  Nature's  tomb, 

And  hear  the  passing  foot  of  Time 
Step  through  the  silent  gloom. 

*'  All  in  a  moment,  crash  on  crash, 

From  precipice  to  precipice, 
An  avalanche's  ruins  dash 

Down  to  the  nethermost  abyss. 
Invisible  ;  the  ear  alone 

Pursues  the  uproar  till  it  dies ; 
Echo  to  echo,  groan  for  groan, 

From  deep  to  deep,  replies. 

"  Silence  again  the  darkness  seals, 

Darkness  that  may  be  felt  ;  —but  scout 
The  silver-clouded  east  reveals 

The  midnight  spectre  of  the  moon  ; 
In  half-eclipse  she  lifts  her  horn, 

Yet  o'er  the  host  of  heaven  supreme 
Brings  the  faint  semblance  of  a  mnrn, 

With  her  awakening  beam. 

"  Ah  !  at  her  touch,  these  Alpine  heights 

Unreal  mockeries  appear  ; 
With  blacker  shadows,  ghastL;er  lights, 

Emerging  as  she  climbs  the  sphere  ; 
A  crowd  of  apparitions  pale  ! 

I  hold  my  breath  in  chill  suspenses, 
They  seem  so  exquisitely  frail, 

Lest  they  should  vanish  hence. 

"  I  breathe  again,  I  freely  breathe  ; 

Thee,  Leman's  Lake,  once  more  1  trace^ 
Like  Dian's  crescent  far  beneath, 

As  beautiful  as  Dian's  face  : 
Pride  of  the  land  that  gave  me  birth  I 

All  that  thy  waves  reflect  I  love, 
Where  heaven  itself,  brought  down  to  earth, 

Looks  fairer  than  above. 


A  ROMANCE.  139 

1  Safe  on  thy  banks  again  I  stray, 

The  trance  of  poesy  is  o'er, 
And  I  am  here  at  dawn  of  day, 

Gazing  on  mountains  as  before, 
Where  all  the  strange  mutations  wrought 

Were  magic  feats  of  my  own  mind  ; 
For,  in  that  fairy  land  of  thought, 

Whate'er  I  seek,  I  find."  * 

*  James  Montgomery. 


CHAPTEE   II. 

FOOT-TRAVELLIKG. 

rpELL  me,  my  soul,  why  art  thou  restless  ?  Why  dost 
-L  thou  look  forward  to  the  future  with  such  strong 
desire  ?  The  present  is  ihine, — and  the  past ; — and  the 
future  shall  be  !  0  that  thou  didst  look  forward  to  the 
great  hereafter  with  half  the  longing  wherewith  thou 
longest  for  an  earthly  future, — which  a  few  days,  at  most, 
will  bring  thee  !  to  the  meeting  of  the  dead,  as  to  the 
meeting  of  the  absent  !  Thou  glorious  spirit-land  1  0 
that  I  could  behold  thee  as  thou  art,— the  region  of  life 
and  light  and  love,  and  the  dwelling-place  of  those  be 
loved  ones  whose  being  has  flowed  onward,  like  a  silver- 
clear  stream  into  the  solemn-sounding  main,  into  the 
ocean  of  Eternity ! 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  passed  through  the  soul  of 
Flemming,  as  he  lay  in  utter  solitude  and  silence  on  the 
rounded  summit  of  one  of  the  mountains  of  the  Furca  Pass, 
and  gazed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  ardent  longing  in  his 
heart,  into  the  blue,  swimming  heaven  overhead,  and  at 
the  glaciers  and  snowy  mountain-peaks  around  him. 
Highest  and  whitest  of  all  stood  the  peak  of  the  Jungfrau, 
which  seemed  near  him,  though  it  rose  afar  off  from  the 
bosom  of  the  Lauterbrunner  Thai.  There  it  stood,  holy 
and  high  and  pure,  the  bride  of  heaven,  veiled  and  clothed 
in  white,  and  lifting  the  thoughts  of  the  beholder  heaven 
ward,  0,  he  little  thought  then,  as  he  gazed  at  it  with 
140 


A  ROMANCE.  141 

longing  and  delight,  how  soon  a  form  was  to  arise  in  his 
own  soul,  as  holy  and  high  and  pure  as  this,  and  like  this 
point  heavenward  ! 

Thus  lay  the  traveller  on  the  mountain  summit,  repos 
ing  his  Aveary  limbs  on  the  short,  brown  grass,  which 
more  resembled  moss  than  grass.  lie  had  sent  his  guide 
forward,  that  he  might  be  alone.  His  soul  within  him 
was  wild  with  a  fierce  and  painful  delight.  The  moun 
tain  air  excited  him  ;  the  mountain  solitudes  enticed,  yec 
maddened  him.  Every  peak,  every  sharp,  jagged  iceberg 
seemed  to  pierce  him.  The  silence  was  awful  and  sub 
lime.  It  was  like  that  in  the  soul  of  a  dying  man,  when 
he  hears  no  more  the  sounds  of  earth.  lie  seemed  to  be 
laying  aside  his  earthly  garments.  The  heavens  were  neai 
unto  him  ;  but  between  him  and  heaven  every  evil  deed 
he  had  done  arose  gigantic,  like  those  mountain-peaks, 
and  breathed  an  icy  breath  upon  him.  0,  let  not  the 
soul  that  suffers  dare  to  look  Nature  in  the  face,  whe:1 3 
she  sits  majestically  aloft  in  the  solitude  of  the  moun 
tains  !  for  her  face  is  hard  and  stern,  and  looks  not  in 
compassion  upon  her  weak  and  erring  child.  It  is  the 
countenance  of  an  accusing  archangel,  who  summons  us 
to  judgment.  In  the  valley  she  wears  the  countenance  of 
a  Virgin  Mother,  looking  at  us  with  tearful  eyes,  and  a 
face  of  pity  and  love  ! 

But  yesterday  Flemming  had  come  up  the  valley  of  the 
Saint  Gothard  Pass,  through  Amsteg,  where  the  Kerste!- 
enbach  comes  dashing  down  the  Madcraner  Thai,  from 
its  snowy  cradle  overhead.  The  road  is  steep,  and  runs 
on  zigzag  terraces.  The  sides  of  the  mountains  are  ba7*- 
ren  cliffs  ;  and  from  their  cloud-capt  summits,  unheard 
amid  the  roar  of  the  great  torrent  below,  come  streams 
of  snow-white  foam,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  like  the 


142  HYPERION, 

mountain  chamois.  As  you  advance,  the  scene  grows 
wilder  and  more  desolate.  There  is  not  a  tree  in  sight, — • 
not  a  human  habitation.  Clouds,  black  as  midnight, 
lower  upon  you  from  the  ravines  above  ;  and  the  moun 
tain  torrent  beneath  is  but  a  sheet  of  foam,  and  sends  up 
an  incessant  roar.  A  sudden  turn  in  the  road  brings  you 
in  sight  of  a  lofty  bridge,  stepping  from  cliff  to  cliff  with 
a  single  stride.  A  fearful  cataract  howls  beneath  it,  like 
an  evil  spirit,  and  fills  the  air  with  mist ;  and  the  moun 
tain  Avind  claps  its  hands  and  shrieks  through  the  narrow 
pass,  Ha  !  ha  !  This  is  the  Devil's  Bridge.  It  leads  the 
traveller  across  the  fearful  chasm,  and  through  a  moun 
tain  gallery  into  the  broad,  green,  silent  meadow  of 
Andermath. 

Even  the  sunny  morning  which  followed  this  gloomy 
day  had  not  chased  the  desolate  impression  from  the 
soul  of  Flemming.  His  excitement  increased  as  he 
lost  himself  more  and  more  among  the  mountains ; 
and  now,  as  he  lay  all  alone  on  the  summit  of  the 
sunny  hill,  with  only  glaciers  and  snowy  peaks  about 
him,  his  soul,  as  I  have  said,  was  wild  with  a  fierce  and 
painful  delight. 

A  human  voice  broke  his  reverie.  He  looked,  and  be 
held,  at  a  short  distance  from  him,  the  athletic  form  of  a 
mountain  herdsman,  who  was  approaching  the  spot  where 
he  lay.  He  was  a  young  man,  clothed  in  a  rustic  garb, 
and  holding  a  long  staff  in  his  hand.  When  Flemming 
rose,  he  stood  still,  and  gazed  at  him,  as  if  he  loved  the 
face  of  man,  even  of  a  stranger,  and  longed  to  hear  a 
human  voice,  though  it  might  speak  in  an  unknown 
tongue.  He  answered  Flemming's  salutation  in  a  rude 
mountain  dialect,  and  in  reply  to  his  questions  said  : — 

"  I,  with  two  others,  hare  charge  of  two  hundred  head 


A  ROMANCE.  143 

of  cattle  on  these  mountains.  Through  the  two  summer 
months,  we  remain  here  night  and  day ;  for  which  we 
receive  each  a  napoleon." 

Flcmming  gave  him  half  his  summer  wages.  He  waa 
glad  to  do  a  good  deed  in  secret,  and  yet  so  near  heaven. 
The  man  received  it  as  his  due,  like  a  toll-keeper ;  and 
soon  after  departed,  leaving  the  traveller  alone.  And  the 
traveller  went  his  way  down  the  mountain,  as  one  dis 
traught.  He  stopped  only  to  pluck  one  bright  blue 
flower,  which  bloomed  alone  in  the  vast  desert,  and  looked 
up  to  him,  as  if  to  say,  ' '  0,  take  me  with  you  !  leave  mo 
not  here  companionless  ! " 

Erelong  he  reached  the  magnificent  glacier  of  the 
Rhone;  a  frozen  cataract,  more  than  two  thousand  feet  in 
height,  and  many  miles  broad  at  its  base.  It  fills  the 
whole  valley  between  two  mountains,  running  back  to 
their  summits.  At  the  base  it  is  arched,  like  a  dome ; 
and  above,  jagged  and  rough,  and  resembles  a  mass  of 
gigantic  crystals,  of  a  pale  emerald  tint,  mingled  with 
white.  A  snowy  crust  covers  its  surface;  but  at  every 
rent  and  crevice  the  pale  green  ice  shines  clear  in  the  sun. 
Its  shape  is  that  of  a  glove,  lying  with  the  palm  down 
wards,  and  the  fingers  crooked  and  close  together.  It  is 
a  gauntlet  of  ice,  which,  centuries  ago,  Winter,  the  king 
of  these  mountains,  threw  down  in  defiance  to  the  Sun; 
and  year  by  year  the  Sun  strives  in  vain  to  lift  it  from 
the  ground  on  the  point  of  his  glistening  spear.  A  feel 
ing  of  wonder  and  delight  came  over  the  soul  of  Flcmming 
when  he  beheld  it,  and  he  shouted  and  cried  aloud: — 

"  How  wonderful !  how  glorious  ! " 

After  lingering  a  few  hours  in  the  cold,  desolate  valley, 
he  climbed  in  the  afternoon  the  steep  Maycn-Wand,  on 
the  Grimsel ;  passed  the  Lake  of  the  Dead,  with  its  ink- 


144  HYPERION, 

black  waters ;  and  through  the  melting  snow,  and  over 
slippery  stepping-stones  in  the  beds  of  numberless  shallow 
brooks,  descended  to  the  Grimsel  Hospital,  where  ho 
passed  the  night,  and  thought  it  the  most  lone  and  deso 
late  spot  that  man  ever  slept  in. 

On  the  morrow  he  rose  with  the  day ;  and  the  rising 
sun  found  him  already  standing  on  the  rustic  bridge 
which  hangs  over  the  verge  of  the  Falls  of  the  Aar  at 
Handcck,  where  the  river  pitches  down  a  precipice  into  a 
narrow  and  fearful  abyss  shut  in  by  perpendicular  cliffs. 
At  right  angles  with  it  comes  the  beautiful  Aerlcnbach; 
and  half-way  down,  the  double  cascade  mingles  into  one. 
Thus  he  pursued  his  way  down  the  Hasli  Thai  into  the 
Bernese  Oberland, — restless,  impatient,  he  knew  not  why, 
—stopping  seldom,  and  never  long, — and  then  rushing 
forward  again,  like  the  rushing  river  whose  steps  he  fol 
lowed,  and  in  whose  ice-cold  waters  ever  and  anon  he 
bathed  his  wrists,  to  cool  the  fever  in  his  blood ;  for  the 
noonday  sun  was  hot. 

His  heart  dilated  in  the  dilating  valley,  that  grew 
broader  and  greener  at  every  step.  The  sight  of  human 
faces  and  human  dwellings  soothed  him  ;  and  through  the 
fields  of  summer  grain,  in  the  broad  meadows  of  Imgrund, 
he  walked  with  a  heart  that  ached  no  more,  but  trembled 
only,  as  our  eyelids  when  we  have  done  weeping.  As  he 
climbed  the  opposite  hill,  which  bcms  in  this  romantic 
valley,  and,  like  a  heavy  yoke,  chafes  the  neck  of  the 
Aar,  he  believed  the  ancient  tradition,  which  says  that 
once  the  valley  was  a  lake.  From  the  summit  of  the  hill 
he  looked  southward  upon  a  beautiful  landscape  of  gar 
dens,  and  fields  of  grain,  and  woodlands,  and  meadows, 
and  the  ancient  castle  of  Eesti,  looking  down  upon 
Meyringen.  And  now  all  around  him  were  the  singing 


A  ROMANCE.  145 

of  birds,  and  grateful  shadows  of  the  leafy  trees,  and 
sheeted  waterfalls  dropping  from  the  woodland  cliffs, 
seen  only,  but  unheard, — the  fluted  columns  breaking 
into  mist,  and  fretted  with  frequent  spires  and  ornaments 
of  foam,  and  not  unlike  the  towers  of  a  Gothic  church 
inverted.  There  is  one  white  sheet  of  foam,  the  Reich- 
enbach  pours  down  into  its  deep  beaker,  into  which  the 
sun  never  shines.  Face  to  face  it  beholds  the  Alpbach 
falling  from  the  opposite  hill,  "like  a  downward  smoke." 
When  Flemming  saw  the  innumerable  runnels,  sliding 
down  the  mountain-side,  and  leaping,  all  life  and  glad 
ness,  he  would  fain  have  clasped  them  in  his  arms  and 
been  their  playmate,  and  revelled  with  them  in  their 
freedom  and  delight.  Yet  he  was  weary  with  the  day's 
journey,  and  entered  the  village  of  Meyringen,  embow 
ered  in  cherry-trees,  which  were  then  laden  with  fruit, 
more  like  a  way-worn  traveller  than  an  enthusiastic  poet. 
As  he  went  up  the  tavern-steps,  he  said  in  his  heart,  with 
the  Italian  Aretino:  "He  who  has  not  been  at  a  tavern 
knows  not  what  a  paradise  it  is.  0  holy  tavern!  0 
miraculous  tavern! — holy,  because  no  carking  cares  are 
there,  nor  weariness,  nor  pain;  and  miraculous,  because 
of  the  spits,  which  of  themselves  turn  round  and  round! 
Of  a  truth,  all  courtesy  and  good  manners  come  from 
taverns,  so  full  of  bows,  and  Signor,  si!  and  Signor, 
no!" 

But  even  in  the  tavern  he  could  not  rest  long. 
The  same  evening  at  sunset  he  was  floating  on  the 
lake  of  Brienz,  in  an  open  boat,  close  under  the 
cascade  of  the  Giessbach,  hearing  the  peasants  sing 
the  Ranz  des  Vaches.  He  slept  that  night  at  the 
other  extremity  of  the  lake,  in  a  large  house,  which, 
like  Saint  Peter's  at  Joppa,  stood  by  the  water's  side. 
10 


146  HYPERION. 

The  next  day  lie  wasted  in  writing  letters,  musing  in 
this  green  nest,  and  paddling  about  the  lake  again  ;  and 
in  the  evening  went  across  the  beautiful  meadows  to 
Interlachen,  where  many  things  happened  to  him,  and 
detained  him  long. 


CHAPTER  III. 

ENTEBLACHEBT. 

TNTERLACHEN  !  How  peacefully,  by  the  margin  of 
-L  the  swift-rushing  Aar,  thou  liest  on  the  broad  lap  of 
those  romantic  meadows,  all  overshadowed  by  the  wide 
arms  of  giant  trees  !  Only  the  quaint  towers  of  thine 
ancient  cloister  rise  above  their  summits ;  the  quaint 
towers  themselves  but  a  child's  playthings  under  the 
great  church-towers  of  the  mountains.  Close  beside  thee 
are  lakes,  which  the  flowing  band  of  the  river  ties  to 
gether.  Before  thee  opens  the  magnificent  valley  of 
Lauterbrunncn,  where  the  cloud-hooded  Monk  and  the 
pale  Virgin  stand  like  St.  Francis  and  his  Bride  of  Snow ; 
and  around  thee  are  fields,  and  orchards,  and  hamlets 
green,  from  which  the  church-bells  answer  each  other  at 
evening.  The  evening  sun  was  setting  when  I  first  be 
held  thee.  The  sun  of  life  will  set  ere  I  forget  thee  ! 
Surely  it  was  a  scene  like  this  that  inspired  the  soul  of 
the  Swiss  poet,  in  his  Song  of  the  Bell ! 

"Bell!  thou  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 

To  the  church  doth  hie  ! 
Bell!  thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 

Fields  deserted  lie  ! 

"  Bell!  thou  soundest  merrily; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening, 
Bedtime  drawet.h  nigh  ! 

147 


148  HYPERION, 

Bell !  thou  soundest  mournfully, 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 
Parting  hath  gone  by  ! 

"  Say!  how  canst  thou  mourn  F 
How  canst  thou  rejoice? 

Art  but  metal  dull  ! 
And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all  J 

"  God  hath  wonders  many, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom, 

Placed  within  thy  form  t 
When  the  heart  is  sinking, 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 
Trembling  in  the  storm  !  * 

Paul  Flemming  alighted  at  one  of  the  principal  hotels. 
The  landlord  came  out  to  meet  him.  lie  had  great  eyea 
and  a  green  coat ;  and  reminded  Flemming  of  the  inn 
keeper  mentioned  in  the  Golden  Ass,  who  had  beer 
changed  by  magic  into  a  frog,  and  croaked  to  his  cus 
tomers  from  the  lees  of  a  wine-cask.  His  house,  he  said, 
was  full,  and  so  was  every  house  in  Interlachen  ;  but,  if 
the  gentleman  would  walk  into  the  parlor  he  would  pro 
cure  a  chamber  for  him  in  the  neighborhood. 

On  the  sofa  sat  a  gentleman,  reading ;  a  stout  gentle 
man  of  perhaps  forty-five,  round,  ruddy,  and  with  a  head 
\rhich,  being  a  little  bald  on  the  top,  looked  not  unlike  a 
crow's  nest  with  one  egg  in  it.  A  good-humored  face 
turned  from  the  book  as  Flemming  entered  ;  and  a  good- 
humored  voice  exclaimed  : — 

"  Ha  I  ha !  Mr.  Flemming  !  Is  it  you,  or  your  appa 
rition  ?  I  told  you  we  should  meet  again  !  though  you 


A  ROMANCE.  149 

were  for  taking  an  eternal  farewell  of  your  fellow-trav 
eller." 

Saying  these  words  the  stout  gentleman  rose  and  shook 
Flemming  heartily  by  the  hand.  And  Flemming  re 
turned  the  shake  as  heartily,  recognizing  in  this  ruddy 
personage  a  former  travelling-companion,  Mr.  Berkley, 
whom  he  had  left,  a  week  or  two  previous,  toiling  up  the 
Righi.  Mr.  Berkley  was  an  Englishman  of  fortune  ;  a 
good-humored,  humane  old  bachelor,  remarkable  alike 
for  his  common  sense  and  his  eccentricity.  That  is  tc 
say,  the  basis  of  his  character  was  good,  Mund,  common- 
sense,  trodden  down  and  smoothed  by  education  ;  but 
this  level  groundwork  his  strange  and  isrhimsical  fancy 
used  as  a  dancing-floor  Avhereon  to  exhibit  her  eccentric 
tricks.  His  ruling  passion  was  cold-bathing ;  and  he 
usually  ate  his  breakfast  sitting  in  a  tub  of  cold  water, 
and  reading  a  newspaper.  He  kissed  every  child  he  met ; 
and  to  every  old  man  said,  in  passing,  "God  bless  you  !" 
with  such  an  expression  of  voice  and  countenance,  that 
no  one  could  doubt  his  sincerity.  He  remirded  one  of 
Eoger  Bontemps,  or  the  Little  Man  in  Gray ;  though 
with  a  difference. 

"  The  last  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  Mr. 
Berkley,"  said  Flemming,  "was  at  Goldau,  just  as  you 
were  going  up  the  Eighi.  I  hope  you  were  gratified  ^vitt 
a  fine  sunrise  on  the  mountain-top." 

''No,  I  was  not !"  replied  Mr.  Berkley,  "it  is  all  a 
humbug !  a  confounded  humbug  !  They  made  such  a 
noise  about  their  sunrise  that  I  determined  I  would  not 
eec  it.  So  I  lay  snug  in  bed  ;  and  only  peeped  through 
the  window-curtain.  That  was  enough.  Just  above  the 
house,  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  stood  some  fifty  half -dressed, 
romantic  individuals,  shivering  in  the  wet  grass ;  and,  a 


150  HYPERION, 

short  distance  from  them,  a  miserable  wretch,  blowing  a 
long,  wooden  horn.  That's  your  sunrise  on  the  Righi,  ia 
it  ?  said  I ;  and  went  to  sleep  again.  The  best  thing  I 
saw  at  the  Culm  was  the  advertisement  on  the  bed-room 
doors,  saying,  that,  if  the  ladies  would  wear  the  quilts 
and  blankets  for  shawls  when  they  went  out  to  see  the 
sunrise,  they  must  pay  for  the  washing.  Take  my  word 
for  it,  the  Righi  is  a  great  humbug  ! " 

"Where  have  you  been  since  ?" 

"At  Zurich  and  Schaffhausen.  If  you  go  to  Ziirich, 
beware  how  you  stop  at  the  Raven.  They  will  cheat  }:ou. 
They  cheated  me  ;  but  I  had  my  revenge ;  for,  when  we 
reached  Schaffhausen,  I  wrote  in  the  Traveller's  Book, — 

'  Beware  of  the  Raven  of  Zurich  ! 

'Tis  a  bird  of  omen  ill  ; 
With  a  noisy  and  unclean  nest, 
And  a  very,  very  long  bill.' 

If  you  go  to  the  Golden  Falken,  you  will  find  it  there. 
I  am  the  author  of  these  lines  ! " 

"  Bitter  as  Juvenal ! "  exclaimed  Flemming. 

"Not  in  the  least  bitter,"  said  Mr.  Berkley.  "It  is 
all  true.  Go  to  the  Raven  and  sec.  But  this  Interlachen  ! 
this  Interlachen  !  It  is  the  loveliest  spot  on  the  face  of 
the  earth/'  he  continued,  stretching  out  both  arms,  as  if 
to  embrace  the  object  of  his  affection.  "There, — only 
look  out  there  1 " 

Here  he  pointed  to  the  window.  Flemming  looked,  and 
beheld  a  scene  of  transcendent  beauty.  The  plain  was  cov 
ered  already  by  the  brown  shade  of  the  summer  twilight. 
From  the  cottage  roofs  in  Unterseeu  rose  here  and  there 
a  thin  column  of  smoke  over  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and 
mingled  with  the  evening  shadows.  The  valley  of  Lau- 


A  ROMANCE.  1§^ 

terbrunnen  was  filled  with  a  blue  haze.  Far  above,  in 
the  clear,  cloudless  heaven,  the  white  forehead  of  the 
Jungfrau  blushed  at  the  last  kiss  of  the  departing  sun. 
It  was  a  glorious  transfiguration  of  Nature  !  And  when 
the  village  bells  began  to  ring,  and  a  single  voice  at  a 
great  distance  was  heard  yodling  forth  a  ballad,  it  rather 
broke  than  increased  the  enchantment  of  a  scene,  where 
silence  was  more  musical  than  sound. 

For  a  long  time  they  gazed  at  the  gloaming  landscape, 
and  spake  not.  At  length  people  came  into  the  parlor, 
and  laid  aside  their  shawls  and  hats,  and  exchanged  a 
word  or  two  with  Berkley.  To  Flemming  they  were  all 
unknown.  To  him  it  was  all  Mr.  Brown,  and  Mrs.  John 
son,  and  nothing  more.  The  conversation  turned  upon 
the  various  excursions  of  the  day.  Some  had  been  at  the 
Staubbach,  others  at  the  Grindelwald,  others  at  the  lake 
of  Thun ;  and  nobody  before  had  ever  experienced  half 
the  rapture  which  they  had  experienced  that  day.  And 
thus  they  sat  in  the  twilight,  as  people  love  to  do,  at  the 
close  of  a  summer  day.  As  yet  the  lamps  had  not  been 
lighted,  and  one  could  not  distinguish  faces ;  but  voices 
only,  and  forms  like  shadows. 

Presently  a  female  figure,  clothed  in  black,  entered  the 
room  and  sat  down  by  the  window.  She  rather  listened 
to  the  conversation,  than  joined  in  it  ;  but  the  few  words 
she  said  were  spoken  in  a  voice  so  musical  and  so  full  of 
soul,  that  it  moved  the  soul  of  Flemming,  like  a  whisper 
from  heaven. 

0,  how  wonderful  is  the  human  voice  !  It  is  indeed 
the  organ  of  the  soul !  The  intellect  of  man  sits  en 
throned  visibly  upon  his  forehead  and  in  his  eye  ;  and 
the  heart  of  man  is  written  upon  his  countenance.  But 
the  soul  reveals  itself  in  the  voice  only  ;  as  God  revealed 


152  HYPERION, 

himself  to  the  prophet  of  old  in  the  still,  small  voice,  and 
in  the  voice  from  the  burning  bush.  The  soul  of  man  is 
audible,  not  visible.  A  sound  alone  betrays  the  flowing 
of  the  eternal  fountain,  invisible  to  man  ! 

Flemming  would  fain  have  sat  and  listened  for  hours 
to  the  sound  of  that  unknown  voice.  He  felt  sure,  in 
his  secret  heart,  that  the  being  from  whom  it  came  was 
beautiful.  His  imagination  filled  up  the  faint  outline 
which  the  eye  beheld  in  the  fading  twilight,  and  the 
figure  stood  already  in  his  mind  like  Raphael's  beautiful 
Madonna,  in  the  Dresden  gallery.  He  was  never  more 
mistaken  in  his  life.  The  voice  belonged  to  a  beautiful 
being,  it  is  true  ;  but  her  beauty  was  different  from  that 
of  any  Madonna  which  Raphael  ever  painted  ;  as  he  would 
have  seen,  had  he  waited  till  the  lamps  were  lighted. 
But  in  the  midst  of  his  reverie  and  saint-painting,  the 
landlord  came  in,  and  told  him  he  had  found  a  chamber, 
which  he  begged  him  to  go  and  look  at. 

Flemming  took  his  leave  and  departed.  Berkley  went 
with  him,  to  see,  he  said,  what  kind  of  a  nest  his  young 
friend  was  to  sleep  in. 

"The  room  is  not  what  I  could  wish,"  said  the  land 
lord,  as  he  led  them  across  the  street.  "  It  is  in  the 
old  cloister.  But  to-morro^w  or  next  day,  you  can,  no 
doubt,  have  a  room  at  the  house." 

The  name  of  the  cloister  struck  Flemniing's  imagina 
tion  pleasantly.  He  was  owl  enough  to  like  ruins  and  old 
chambers,  where  nuns  or  friars  had  slept.  And  he  said 
to  Berkley : — 

"  So,  you  perceive,  my  nest  is  to  be  in  a  cloister.  It 
already  makes  me  think  of  a  bird's  nest  I  once  saw  on  an 
old  tower  of  Heidelberg  Castle,  built  in  the  jaws  of  a  lion, 
which  formerly  served  as  a  spout.  But  pray  tell  me,  who 
was  that  young  lady  with  the  soft  voice  ?  " 


A  ROMANCE.  15;$ 

"  "What  young  lady  with  the  soft  voice  ?  " 

"  The  young  lady  in  black  who  sat  by  the  window." 

"  0,  she  is  the  daughter  of  an  English  officer,  who  died 
not  long  ago  at  Naples.  She  is  passing  the  summer  here 
with  her  mother." 

"  What  is  her  name  ?" 

"Ashburton." 

"  Is  she  beautiful  ?" 

"Not  in  the  least,  but  very  intellectual.  A  woman 
of  genius,  I  should  say." 

And  now  they  had  reached  the  walls  of  the  cloister, 
and  passed  under  an  arched  gateway,  and  close  beneath 
the  quaint  towers,  which  Flemming  had  already  seen, 
rising  with  their  cone-shaped  roofs  above  the  trees,  like 
tall  tapers,  with  extinguishers  upon  them. 

"It  is  not  so  bad  as  it  looks,"  said  the  landlord, 
knocking  at  a  small  door,  in  the  main  building.  "  The 
bailiff  lives  in  one  part  of  it." 

A  servant  girl,  with  a  candle  in  her  hand,  opened  the 
door,  and  conducted  Flemming  and  Berkley  to  the  cham 
ber  Avhich  had  been  engaged.  It  was  a  large  room  on  the 
lower  floor,  wainscoted  with  pine  and  unpainted.  Three 
l<3fty  and  narroAV  windows,  with  leaden  lattices  and  small 
panes,  looked  southward  towards  the  valley  of  Lauter- 
brunnen  and  the  mountains.  In  one  corner  was  a  large 
square  bed,  with  a  tester  and  checked  curtains.  In  an 
other,  a  huge  stove  of  painted  tiles,  reaching  almost  to 
the  ceiling.  An  old  sofa,  a  few  high-backed,  antique 
chairs,  and  a  table,  completed  the  furniture  of  the  room. 

Thus  Flemming  took  possession  of  his  monkish  cell 
and  dormitory.  He  ordered  tea,  and  began  to  feel  at 
home.  Berkley  passed  the  evening  with  him.  On  going 
away,  he  said  : — 


154  HYPERION. 

"  Good  night  I  I  leave  you  in  the  care  of  the  Virgin 
and  all  the  Saints.  If  the  ghost  of  any  old  monk  comes 
back  after  his  prayer-book,  my  compliments  to  him.  If 
I  were  a  younger  man,  you  certainly  should  see  a  ghost. 
Good-night ! " 

When  he  had  departed,  Flemming  opened  the  lattice 
of  one  of  the  windows.  The  moon  had  risen,  and  silvered 
the  dark  outline  of  the  nearest  hills  ;  while,  afar  off,  the 
snowy  summits  of  the  Jungfrau  and  the  Silver-Horn 
shone  like  a  white  cloud  in  the  sky.  Close  beneath  the 
windows  was  a  flower-garden  ;  and  the  breath  of  the  sum 
mer  night  came  to  him  with  dewy  fragrance.  There  was 
a  grateful  seclusion  about  the  place.  He  blessed  the 
happy  accident  which  gave  him  such  a  lodging,  and  fell 
asleep  that  night  thinking  of  the  nuns  who  once,  had  slept 
in  the  same  quiet  cells ;  but  neither  wimpled  nun  nor 
cowled  monk  appeared  to  him  in  his  dreai/jj ; — y.ot  even 
the  face  of  Mary  Ashburton ;  nor  did  he  L  <ior  hov  soice. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   EVENING   AND   THE  MORNING   STAR. 

OLD  Froissart  tells  us,  in  his  Chronicles,  that,  when 
King  Edward  beheld  the  Countess  of  Salisbury  at 
fier  castle-gate,  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  before  so 
noble  nor  so  fair  a  lady  ;  ho  was  stricken  thereupon  to  the 
heart  with  a  sparkle  of  fine  love,  that  endured  long  after ; 
he  thought  no  lady  in  the  world  so  worthy  to  be  beloved 
as  she.  And  so  likewise  thought  Paul  Flemming,  when 
he  beheld  the  English  lady  in  the  fair  light  of  a  summer 
morning.  I  will  not  disguise  the  truth.  She  is  my 
heroine  ;  and  I  mean  to  describe  her  with  great  truth  and 
beauty,  so  that  all  shall  be  in  love  with  her,  and  I  most 
of  all. 

Mary  Ashburton  was  in  her  twentieth  summer.  Like 
the  fair  maiden  Amoret,  she  was  sitting  in  the  lap  of 
womanhood.  They  did  her  wrong  who  said  she  was  not 
beautiful ;  and  yet 

"  She  was  not  fair, 

Nor  beautiful  ; — those  words  express  her  not. 
But,  0,  her  looks  had  something  excellent, 
That  wants  a  name  1 " 

Her  face  had  a  wonderful  fascination  in  it.  It  was 
such  a  calm,  quiet  face,  with  the  light  of  the  rising  soul 
shining  so  peacefully  through  it.  At  times  it  wore  an 
expression  of  seriousness, — of  sorrow  even  ;  and  then 

155 


156  HYPEEIOX, 

seemed  to  make  the  Yery  air  bright  with  what  the  Italian 
poets  so  beautifully  call  the  lampeggiar  del?  angelica  riso, 
— the  lightning  of  the  angelic  smile. 

And,  0,  those  eyes, — those  deep  unutterable  eyes,  with 
"  down-falling  eyelids  full  of  dreams  and  slumber,"  and 
within  them  a  cold,  living  light,  as  in  mountain  lakes  at 
evening,  or  in  the  river  of  Paradise,  forever  gliding, 

"  With  a  brown,  brown  current, 
Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon." 

I  dislike  an  eye  that  twinkles  like  a  star.  Those  only 
are  beautiful  which,  like  the  planets,  have  a  steady,  lam 
bent  light, — are  luminous,  but  not  sparkling.  Such 
eyes  the  Greek  poets  give  to  Immortals.  But  I  forget 
myself. 

The  lady's  figure  was  striking.  Every  step,  every  atti 
tude,  was  graceful,  and  yet  lofty,  as  if  inspired  by  the 
BOU!  within.  Angels  in  the  old  poetic  philosophy  have 
such  forms  ;  it  was  the  soul  itself  imprinted  on  the  air. 
And  what  a  soul  was  hers  !  A  temple  dedicated  to 
Heaven,  and,  like  the  Pantheon  at  Rome,  lighted  only 
from  above.  And  earthly  passions  in  the  form  of  god& 
were  no  longer  there,  but  the  sweet  and  thoughtful  faces 
of  Christ,  and  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  the  Saints.  Thus 
there  was  not  one  discordant  thing  in  her ;  but  a  perfect 
harmony  of  figure,  and  face,  and  soul, — in  a  word,  of  the 
whole  being.  And  he  who  had  a  soul  to  comprehend  hera 
must  of  necessity  love  her,  and,  having  once  loved  her, 
could  love  no  other  woman  forevermore. 

No  wonder-  then,  that  Flemming  felt  his  heart  drawn 
towards  her,  as,  in  her  morning  walk,  she  passed  him, 
sitting  alone  under  thp  great  walnut-trees  near  the  clois* 


A  ROMANCE.  157 

ter,  and  thinking  of  heaven,  but  not  of  her.  She,  too, 
was  alone.  Her  cheek  Avas  no  longer  pale  ;  but  glowing 
and  bright,  with  the  inspiration  of  the  summer  ail. 
Memming  gazed  after  her,  till  she  disappeared,  even  as 
a  vision  of  his  dreams,  he  knew  not  whither.  He  was 
not  yet  in  love,  but  very  near  it ;  for  he  thanked  God  that 
he  had  made  such  beautiful  beings  to  walk  the  earth. 

Last  night  he  had  heard  a  voice  to  which  his  soul 
responded ;  and  he  might  have  gone  on  his  way  and 
taken  no  further  heed.  But  he  would  have  heard  that 
voice  afterwards,  whenever  at  evening  he  thought  of  this 
evening  at  Interlachen.  To-day  he  had  seen  more  clearly 
the  vision,  and  his  restless  soul  grew  calm.  The  place 
seemed  pleasant  to  him  ;  and  he  could  not  go.  He  did 
not  ask  himself  whence  came  this  calm.  He  felt  it,  and 
was  happy  in  the  feeling  ;  and  blessed  the  landscape  and 
the  summer  morning,  as  if  they  possessed  the  wonder 
working  power. 

"A  pleasant  morning-dream  to  you,"  said  a  friendly 
voice  ;  and  at  the  same  moment  some  one  laid  his  hand 
upon  Flemming's  shoulder.  It  was  Berkley.  He  hud 
approached  unseen  and  unheard. 

"I  see  by  the  smile  on  your  countenance,"  he  con 
tinued,  "that  it  is  no  day-incubus." 

"You  are  right,"  replied  Flemming.  "It  was  a 
pleasant  dream,  which  you  have  put  to  flight." 

"  And  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  have  also  put  to  flight 
the  gloomy  thoughts  which  used  to  haunt  you.  I  like  to 
see  people  cheerful  and  happy.  What  is  the  use  of  giving 
way  to  sadness  in  this  beautiful  world  ?" 

"Ah  !  this  beautiful  world  !"  said  Flemming,  with  a 
smile.  "  Indeed  I  know  not  what  to  think  of  it.  Some 
times  it  is  all  gladness  and  sunshine,  and  heaven  itself  lies 


158  HYPERION; 

not  far  off.  And  then  it  changes  suddenly,  and  is  darlj 
and  sorrowful,  and  clouds  shut  out  the  sky.  In  the  livea 
of  the  saddest  of  us,  there  are  bright  days  like  this,  when 
we  feel  as  if  we  could  take  the  great  world  in  our  arms 
and  kiss  it.  Then  come  the  gloomy  hours,  when  the  fire 
will  neither  burn  on  our  hearths  nor  in  our  hearts  ;  and 
all  without  and  within  is  dismal,  cold,  and  dark.  Believe 
me,  every  heart  has  its  secret  sorrows  which  the  world 
knows  not,  and  oftentimes  we  call  a  man  cold,  when  ho 
is  only  sad. " 

"And  who  says  we  don't?"  interrupted  Berkley. 
"  Come,  come  !  Let  us  go  to  breakfast.  The  morning 
air  lias  given  me  a  rude  appetite.  I  long  to  say  grace 
over  a  fresh  egg,  and  cat  salt  with  my  worst  enemies ; 
namely,  the  Cockneys  at  the  hotel.  After  breakfast  you 
must  give  yourself  up  wholly  to  me.  I  shall  take  you  to 
the  Grindelwald  ! " 

"To-day,  then,  you  do  not  breakfast  like  Diogenes, 
but  consent  to  leave  your  tub." 

"  Yes,  for  the  pleasure  of  your  company.  I  shall  also 
blow  out  the  light  in  my  lantern,  having  found  you." 

"Thank  you." 

The  breakfast  passed  without  any  unusual  occurrence. 
Flemming  watched  the  entrance  of  every  guest ;  but  she 
came  not, — the  guest  he  most  desired  to  see. 

"  And  now  for  the  Grindelwald  ! "  said  Berkley. 

"  Why  such  haste  ?  We  have  the  whole  day  before  us. 
There  is  time  enough." 

"Not  a  moment  to  lose,  I  assure  you.  The  carriage  is 
at  the  door." 

They  drove  up  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen,  and 
turned  eastward  among  the  mountains  of  the  Grindel 
wald.  There  they  passed  the.  day ;  half-frozen  by  the  icy 


A  ROMANCE.  159 

breath  of  tho  Great  Glacier,  upon  whose  surface  stand 
pyramids  and  blocks  of  ice,  like  the  tombstones  of  a 
cemetery.  It  was  a  weary  day  to  Flcmming.  lie  wished 
himself  at  Intcrlachen ;  and  was  glad,  when,  towards 
evening,  he  saw  once  more  tho  cone-roofed  towers  of  the 
cloister  rising  above  the  walnut-trees. 

That  evening  is  written  in  red  letters  in  his  history.  It 
gave  him  another  revelation  of  the  beauty  and  excellence 
of  the  female  character  and  intellect ;  not  wholly  new  to 
him,  yet  now  renewed  and  fortified.  It  was  from  the 
lips  of  Mary  Ashburton  that  the  revelation  came.  Her 
form  arose,  like  a  tremulous  evening-star,  in  the  firmament 
of  his  soul.  lie  conversed  with  her,  and  with  her  alone  ; 
and  knew  not  when  to  go.  All  others  were  to  him  as  if 
they  were  not  there.  He  saw  their  forms,  but  saw  them 
as  the  forms  of  inanimate  things.  At  length  her  mother 
came ;  and  Flcmming  beheld  in  her  but  another  Mary 
Ashburton,  with  beauty  more  mature  ; — the  same  fore 
head  and  eyes,  the  same  majestic  figure  ;  and,  as  yet,  no 
trace  of  age.  He  gazed  upon  her  with  a  feeling  of  de 
light,  not  unmingled  with  holy  awe.  She  was  to  him  the 
rich  and  glowing  Evening,  from  whose  bosom  the  tremu 
lous  star  was  born. 

Berkley  took  no  active  part  in  the  conversation,  but 
did  what  was  much  more  to  the  purpose, — that  is  to  say, 
arranged  a  drive'for  the  next  day  with  the  Ashburtons,  and 
of  course  invited  Flemming,  who  went  home  that  night 
with  a  halo  round  his  head,  and  wondering  much  at  a 
dandy,  who  stood  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  and  said  to 
his  companion,  as  Flemming  passed  : — 

"  What  do  you  call  this  place  ?  I  have  been  here  two 
hours  already,  and  find  it  devilish  dull  1 " 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   RAINY   DAY. 

WHEN  Flemming  awoke  the  next  morning,  he  sa^ 
the  sky  dark  and  lowering.  From  the  mountain- 
iops  hung  a  curtain  of  mist,  whose  heavy  folds  waved  to 
and  fro  in  the  valley  below.  Over  all  the  landscape  the 
soft  summer  rain  was  falling.  No  admiring  eyes  would 
look  up  that  day  at  the  Staubbach. 

A  rainy  day  in  Switzerland  puts  a  sudden  stop  to  many 
diversions.  The  coachman  may  drive  to  the  tavern,  and 
then  back  to  the  stable  ;  but  no  farther.  The  sun-burnt 
guide  may  sit  at  the  ale-house  door,  and  welcome  ;  and 
the  boatman  whistle  and  curse  the  clouds,  at  his  own 
sweet  will ; — but  no  foot  stirs  abroad  for  all  that ;  no 
traveller  moves,  if  he  has  time  to  stay.  The  rainy  day 
gives  him  time  for  reflection.  He  has  leisure  now  to  take 
cognizance  of  his  impressions,  and  make  up  his  ac 
count  with  the  mountains.  He  remembers,  too,  that  he 
has  friends  at  home  ;  and  writes  up  the  journal,  neglected 
for  a  week  or  more,  and  letters  neglected  longer ;  or  fin 
ishes  the  rough  pencil-sketch  begun  yesterday  in  the  open 
air.  On  the  whole,  he  is  not  sorry  it  rains, — though  dis 
appointed. 

Flemming  was  both  sorry  and  disappointed  ;  but  he  did 

not  on  that  account  fail  to  go  over  to  the  Ashburtons  at 

the  appointed  hour.     He  found  them  sitting  in  the  par« 

lor.   The  mother  was  reading,  and  the  daughter  retouch- 

160 


A  ROMANCE.  16] 

ing  a  sketch  of  the  Lake  of  Than.  After  the  usual  salu> 
tations,  Flemming  seated  himself  near  the  daughter,  and 
eaid  : — 

"  We  shall  have  no  Staubbach  to-day,  I  presume  ;  only 
this  Giessbach  from  the  clouds." 

"Nothing  more,  I  suppose.  So  we  must  be  content  to 
stay  in-doors,  and  listen  to  the  sound  of  the  caves-drop 
ping  rain.  It  gives  me  time  to  finish  some  of  these  rough 
sketches." 

"It  is  a  pleasant  pastime,"  said  Flemming  ;  "and  I 
perceive  you  are  very  skilful.  I  am  delighted  to  see  that 
you  can  draw  a  straight  line.  I  never  before  saw  a  lady's 
sketch-book  in  which  all  the  towers  did  not  resemble  the 
Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa.  I  always  tremble  for  the  little 
men  under  them." 

"  How  absurd  ! "  exclaimed  Mary  Ashburton,  with  a 
smile  that  passed  through  the  misty  air  of  Flemming's 
thoughts  like  a  sunbeam.  "For  one,  I  succeed  much 
better  in  straight  lines  than  in  any  others.  Here  I  have 
been  trying  a  half -hour  to  make  this  water-wheel  round  ; 
and  round  it  never  will  be." 

"  Then  let  it  remain  as  it  is.  It  looks  uncommonly 
picturesque,  and  may  pass  for  a  new  invention." 

The  lady  continued  to  sketch,  and  Flemming  to  gaze 
at  her  beautiful  face ;  often  repeating  to  himself  those 
lines  in  Marlow's  Faust : — 

"0,  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air, 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars  ! " 

He  certainly  would  have  betrayed  himself  to  the  maternal 

eye  of  Mrs.  Ashburton,  had  she  not  been  wholly  absorbed 

in  the  follies  of  a  fashionable  novel.     Erelong,  the  fair 

sketcher  had  paused  for  a  moment ;  and  Flemming  had 

11 


162  HYPERION, 

taken  her  sketch-book  in  his  hands  and  was  looking  it 
through  from  the  beginning  with  ever-increasing  delight, 
half  of  Avhich  he  dared  not  express,  though  he  favored 
her  with  some  comments  and  bursts  of  admiration. 

"  This  is  truly  a  very  beautiful  sketch  of  Murten  and 
the  battle-field  !  How  quietly  the  landscape  sleeps  there 
by  the  lake,  after  the  battle  !  Did  you  ever  read  the  bal 
lad  of  Veit  Weber,  the  shoemaker,  on  this  subject  ?  He 
says,  the  routed  Burgundians  jumped  into  the  lake,  and 
the  Swiss  Leaguers  shot  them  down  like  wild  ducks 
among  the  reeds.  He  fought  in  the  battle,  and  wrote  the 
ballad  afterwards  : — 

'  He  had  himself  laid  hand  on  sword, 

He  who  this  rhyme  did  write  ; 
Till  evening  mowed  he  with  the  sword, 
And  sang  the  song  at  night.' " 

"  You  must  give  me  the  whole  ballad,"  said  Miss  Ash- 
burton  ;  "it  will  serve  to  illustrate  the  sketch." 

"  And  the  sketch  to  illustrate  the  ballad.  And  now 
we  suddenly  slide  down  the  Alps  into  Italy,  and  arc 
even  in  Rome,  if  I  mistake  not.  This  is  surely  a  head  of 
Homer?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  lady,  with  a  little  enthusiasm. 
"  Do  you  not  remember  the  marble  bust  at  Rome  ?  AVhen 
I  first  beheld  that  bust,  it  absolutely  inspired  me  with 
awe.  It  is  not  the  face  of  a  man,  but  of  a  god  !  " 

"And  you  have  done  it  no  injustice  in  your  copy," 
said  Flemming,  catching  a  new  enthusiasm  from  hers. 
"  With  what  a  classic  grace  the  fillet,  passing  round  the 
majestic  forehead,  confines  his  flowing  locks,  which 
mingle  with  his  beard  !  The  countenance,  too,  is  calm, 
majestic,  godlike  '  Even  the  fixed  and  sightless  eyeballs 


A  ROMANCE.  163 

do  not  mar  the  image  of  the  seer  !  Such  were  the  sight 
less  eyes  of  the  blind  old  man  of  Chios.  They  seem  to 
look  with  mournful  solemnity  into  the  mysterious  future ; 
and  the  marble  lips  to  repeat  that  prophetic  passage  in 
the  Hymn  to  Apollo  : — '  Let  me  also  hope  to  be  remem 
bered  in  ages  to  come.  And  when  any  one,  born  of  the 
tribes  of  men,  comes  hither,  a  weary  traveller,  and 
inquires,  who  is  the  sweetest  of  the  Singing-Men  that 
resort  to  your  feasts,  and  whom  you  most  delight  to  hear, 
do  you  make  answer  for  me  :  It  is  the  Blind  Man  who 
dwells  in  Chios ;  his  songs  excel  all  that  can  ever  be 
sung  ! '  But  do  you  really  believe  that  this  is  a  portrait  of 
Homer  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not  !  It  is  only  an  artist's  dream.  It  was 
thus  that  Homer  appeared  to  him  in  his  visions  of  the 
antique  world.  Every  one,  you  know,  forms  an  image  in 
his  fancy  of  persons  and  things  he  has  never  seen  ;  and 
the  artist  reproduces  them  in  marble  or  on  canvas." 

"  And  what  is  the  image  in  your  fancy  ?  Is  it  like  this  ?  " 

"No;  not  entirely.  I  have  drawn  my  impressions 
from  another  source.  Whenever  I  think  of  Homer,  which 
is  not  often,  he  walks  before  me,  solemn  and  serene,  as 
in  the  vision  of  the  great  Italian  ;  in  countenance  neither 
sorrowful  nor  glad,  followed  by  other  bards,  and  holding 
in  his  right  hand  a  sword  !  " 

"  That  is  a  finer  conception  than  even  this,"  said 
Hemming.  "  And  I  perceive  from  your  words,  as  well 
as  from  this  book,  that  you  have  a  true  feeling  for  Art, 
and  understand  what  it  is.  You  have  had  bright  glimpses 
into  the  enchanted  land." 

I  "I  trust,"  replied  the  lady,  modestly,  "that  I  am  not 
wholly  without  this  feeling.  Certainly  I  have  as  strong 
and  passionate  a  love  of  Art  as  of  Nature." 


164  SYPSSZOtf, 

"  But  does  it  not  often  offend  you  to  hear  people  speak 
ing  of  Art  and  Nature  as  opposite  and  discordant  things  ? 
Surely  nothing  can  be  more  false.  Nature  is  a  revelation 
of  God  ;  Art  a  revelation  of  man.  Indeed,  Art  signifies 
no  more  than  this.  Art  is  Poweio  That  is  the  original 
meaning  of  the  word.  It  is  the  creative  power  by  which 
the  soul  of  man  makes  itself  known,  through  some 
external  manifestation  or  outward  sign.  As  we  can 
always  hear  the  yoice  of  God,  walking  in  the  garden,  in 
the  cool  of  the  day,  or  under  the  starlight,  where,  to 
quote  one  of  this  poet's  verses,  *  high  prospects  and  the 
brows  of  all  steep  hills  and  pinnacles,  thrust  up  themselves 
for  shows,' — so  under  the  twilight  and  the  starlight  of 
past  ages  do  we  hear  the  voice  of  man,  walking  amid  the 
works  of  his  hands,  and  city  walls  and  towers,  and  the 
spires  of  churches,  thrust  up  themselves  for  shows." 

The  lady  smiled  at  his  warmth  ;  and  he  continued  : — 

"  This,  however,  is  but  a  similitude ;  and  Art  and 
Nature  are  more  nearly  allied  than  by  similitudes  only. 
Art  is  the  revelation  of  man  ;  and  not  merely  that,  but 
likewise  the  revelation  of  Nature,  speaking  through  man. 
Art  pre-exists  in  Nature,  and  Nature  is  reproduced  in 
Art.  As  vapors  from  the  ocean,  floating  landward  and 
dissolved  in  rain,  are-  carried  back  in  rivers  to  the  ocean, 
so  thoughts  and  the  semblances  of  things  that  fall  upon 
the  soul  of  man  in  showers,  flow  out  again  in  living 
streams  of  Art,  and  lose  themselves  in  the  great  ocean, 
which  is  Nature.  Art  and  Nature  are  not,  then,  discord 
ant,  but  ever  harmoniously  working  in  each  other." 

Enthusiasm  begets  enthusiasm.  Flemming  spake  with 
euch  evident  interest  in  the  subject,  that  Miss  Ashburton 
did  not  fail  to  manifest  some  interest  in  what  he  said ; 
and  encouraged  by  this,  be  proceeded : — 


A  ROMANCE.  165 

"  Thus  in  this  wondrous  world  wherein  we  live,  which 
ia  the  "World  of  Nature,  man  has  made  unto  himself 
another  world  hardly  less  wondrous,  which  is  the  World 
of  Art.  And  it  lies  infolded  and  compassed  about  by  the 
other, 

'  And  the  clear  region  where  't  was  bor* 
Bound  in  itself  encloses.' 

Taking  this  view  of  Art,  I  think  we  understand  more 
easily  the  skill  of  the  artist,  and  the  difference  between 
him  and  the  mere  amateur.  What  we  call  miracles  and 
wonders  of  Art  are  not  so  to  him  who  created  them ;  for 
they  were  created  by  the  natural  movements  of  his  own 
great  soul.  Statues,  paintings,  churches,  poems,  are  but 
shadows  of  himself  ; — shadows  in  marble,  colors,  stone, 
words.  He  feels  and  recognizes  their  beauty;  but  he 
thought  these  thoughts  and  produced  these  things  as 
easily  as  inferior  minds  do  thoughts  and  things  inferior. 
Perhaps  more  easily.  Vague  images  and  shapes  of  beauty 
floating  through  the  soul,  the  semblances  of  things  as  yet 
indefinite  or  ill-defined,  and  perfect  only  when  put  in 
Art, — this  Possible  Intellect,  as  the  Scholastic  Philoso 
phcrs  have  termed  it, — the  artist  shares  in  common  with 
us  all.  The  lovers  of  Art  are  many.  But  the  Active  Intel 
lect,  the  creative  power, — the  power  to  put  these  shapes 
and  images  in  Art,  to  embody  the  indefinite,  and  render: 
perfect, — is  his  alone.  He  shares  the  gift  with  few.  He 
knows  not  even  whence  nor  how  this  is.  He  knows  only 
that  it  is ;  that  God  has  given  him  the  power,  which  has 
been  denied  to  others." 

"  I  should  have  known  you  were  just  from  Germany," 
said  the  lady,  with  a  smile,  "even  if  you  had  not  told 


166  HYPERION, 

me  so.  You  are  an  enthusiast  for  the  Germans.  Foi 
my  part,  I  cannot  endure  their  harsh  language." 

"You  would  like  it  better,  if  you  knew  it  better/ 
answered  Flemming.  "  It  is  not  harsh  to  me  ;  but  home 
like,  hearty,  and  full  of  feeling, — like  the  sound  of  happy 
voices  at  a  fireside,  of  a  winter's  night,  when  the  wind 
blows,  and  the  fire  crackles,  and  hisses,  and  snaps.  I  do 
indeed  love  the  Germans  ;  the  men  are  so  hale  and  hearty, 
and  the  Frauleins  so  tender  and  true  ! " 

"I  always  think  of  men  with  pipes  and  beer,  and 
women  with  knitting-work." 

"  0,  those  are  English  prejudices  ! "  exclaimed  Flem 
ming.  "  Nothing  can  be  more — " 

"  And  their  very  literature  presents  itself  to  my  imag 
ination  under  the  same  forms." 

"  I  see  you  have  read  only  English  criticisms  ;  and 
have  an  idea,  that  all  German  books  smell,  as  it  were,  '  of 
groceries,  of  brown  papers  filled  with  greasy  cakes  and 
slices  of  bacon,  and  of  fryings  in  frowzy  back-parlors ' ; 
and  this  shuts  you  out  from  a  glorious  world  of  poetry, 
romance,  and  dreams  !  " 

Mary  Ashburton  smiled,  and  Flemming  continued  to 
turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  sketch-book,  with  an  occa 
sional  criticism  and  witticism.  At  length  he  came  to  a 
leaf  which  was  written  in  pencil.  People  of  a  li  vely  im 
agination  are  generally  curious,  and  always  so  when  a 
little  in  love. 

"  Here  is  a  pencil-sketch,"  said  he,  with  an  entreating 
look,  "which  I  would  fain  examine  with  the  rest." 

"  You  may  do  so,  if  you  wish  ;  but  you  will  find  it  the 
poorest  sketch  in  the  book.  I  was  trying  one  day  to  draw 
the  picture  of  an  artist's  life  in  Eome,  as  it  presented  it 
self  to  my  imagination  ;  and  this  is  the  result.  Perhaps 


A  ROMANCE.  16? 

it  may  awaken  some  pleasant  recollection  in  your 
mind." 

Flemming  waited  no  longer  ;  but  read  with  the  eyes  of 
a  lover,  not  of  a  critic,  the  following  description,  which 
inspired  him  with  a  new  enthusiasm  for  Art,  and  for 
Mary  Ashburton. 

"  I  often  reflect  with  delight  upon  the  young  artist's 
life  in  Rome.  A  stranger  from  the  cold  and  gloomy  North, 
he  has  crossed  the  Alps,  and  with  the  devotion  of  a  pil 
grim  journeyed  to  the  Eternal  City.  He  dwells,  perhaps, 
upon  the  Pincian  Hill ;  and  hardly  a  house  there,  which 
is  not  inhabited  by  artists  from  foreign  lands.  The  very 
room  he  lives  in  has  been  their  abode  from  time  out  of 
mind.  Their  names  are  written  all  over  the  walls  ;  per 
haps  some  further  record  of  them  is  left  in  a  rough  sketch 
upon  the  window-shutter,  with  an  inscription  and  a  date. 
These  things  consecrate  the  place,  in  his  imagination. 
Even  these  names,  though  unknown  to  him,  are  not  with 
out  associations  in  his  mind. 

"  In  that  warm  latitude  he  rises  with  the  day.  The 
night-vapors  are  already  rolling  away  over  the  Campagna 
seaward.  As  he  looks  from  his  window,  above  and  be 
yond  their  white  folds  he  recognizes  the  tremulous  blue 
sea  at  Ostia.  Over  Soracte  rises  the  sun, — over  his  own 
beloved  mountain ;  though  no  longer  worshipped  there, 
as  of  old.  Before  him,  the  antique  house  of  Claude  Lor 
raine  casts  its  long  brown  shadow  down  into  the  heart  of 
modern  Rome.  The  city  lies  still  asleep  and  silent.  But 
above  its  dark  roofs,  more  than  two  hundred  steeples 
catch  the  sunshine  on  their  gilded  weathercocks.  Pres 
ently  the  bells  begin  to  ring,  and,  as  the  artist  listens  to 
their  pleasant  chimes,  he  knows  that  in  each  of  thoso 
churches,  over  the  high  altar,  hangs  a  painting  by 


168  HYPERION, 

some  great  master's  hand,  whose  beauty  comes  between 
him  and  heaven,  so  that  lie  cannot  pray,  but  wonder 
only. 

"  Among  these  works  of  art  he  passes  the  day ;  but 
oftenest  in  St.  Peter's  and  the  Vatican.  Up  the  vast  mar 
ble  staircase,  through  the  Corridor  Chiaramonti,  through 
vestibules,  galleries,  chambers,  he  passes  as  in  a  dream. 
All  are  filled  with  busts  and  statues,  or  painted  in  daring 
frescos.  "What  forms  of  strength  and  beauty  1  what  glo 
rious  creations  of  the  human  mind  !  and  in  that  last  cham 
ber  of  all,  standing  alone  upon  his  pedestal,  the  Apollo 
found  at  Actium, — in  such  a  majestic  attitude, — with  such 
a  noble  countenance,  life-like,  god-like  ! 

"  Or  perhaps  he  passes  into  the  chambers  of  the  paint 
ers  ;  but  goes  no  farther  than  the  second.  For  in  the 
middle  of  that  chamber  a  large  painting  stands  upon  the 
heavy  easel,  as  if  unfinished,  though  more  than  three  hun 
dred  years  ago  the  great  artist  completed  it,  and  then  laid 
his  pencil  away  forever,  leaving  this  last  benediction  to 
the  world.  It  is  the  Transfiguration  of  Christ,  by  Ea- 
phael.  A  child  looks  not  at  the  stars  with  greater  won 
der  than  the  artist  at  this  painting.  He  knows  how  many 
studious  years  are  in  that  picture.  He  knows  the  difficult 
path  that  leads  to  perfection,  having  himself  taken  some 
of  the  first  steps.  Thus  he  recalls  the  hour  when  that 
broad  canvas  was  first  stretched  upon  its  frame,  and  Ra 
phael  stood  before  it,  and  laid  the  first  colors  upon  it,  and 
beheld  the  figures  one  by  one  born  into  life,  and  looked 
upon  the  work  of  his  own  hands  with  a  smile,  that  it 
should  have  succeeded  so  well.  He  recalls,  too,  the  hour, 
when,  the  task  accomplished,  the  pencil  dropped  from  the 
master's  dying  hand,  and  his  eyes  closed  to  open  on  a 
more  glorious  transfiguration,  and  at  length  the  dead  Ba- 


A  ROMANCE.  169 

phael  lay  in  his  own  studio,  before  this  wonderful  paint* 
ing,  more  glorious  than  any  conqueror  under  the  banners 
and  armorial  hatchments  of  his  funeral ! 

"Think  you  that  such  sights  and  thoughts  as  these  do 
not  move  the  heart  of  a  young  man  and  an  artist  ?  And 
when  he  goes  forth  into  the  open  air,  the  sun  is  going 
down,  and  the  gray  ruins  of  an  antique  world  receive 
him.  From  the  Palace  of  the  Csesars  he  looks  down  into 
the  Forum,  or  towards  the  Coliseum ;  or  westward  sees 
the  last  sunshine  strike  the  Bronze  Archangel  which 
stands  upon  the  Tomb  of  Adrian.  He  walks  amid  a 
world  of  Art  in  ruins.  The  very  street-lamps,  that  light 
him  homeward,  burn  before  some  painted  or  sculptured 
image  of  the  Madonna !  What  wonder  is  it,  if  dreams 
visit  him  in  his  sleep, — nay,  if  his  whole  life  seem  to  him 
a  dream  ?  What  wonder,  if,  with  a  feverish  heart  and 
quick  hand,  he  strive  to  reproduce  those  dreams  in  mar 
ble  or  on  canvas  ?" 

Foolish  Paul  Flemming  !  who  both  admired  and  praised 
this  little  sketch,  and  yet  was  too  blind  to  see  that  it  was 
written  from  the  heart,  and  not  from  the  imagination  ! 
Foolish  Paul  Flemming  !  who  thought  that  a  girl  of 
twenty  could  write  thus  without  a  reason  !  Close  upon 
this  followed  another  pencil  sketch,  which  he  likewise 
read,  with  the  lady's  permission.  It  was  this. 

"  The  whole  period  of  the  Middle  Ages  seems  very 
strange  to  me.  At  times  I  cannot  persuade  myself  that 
such  things  could  have  been  as  history  tells  us  ;  that  such 
a  strange  world  was  a  part  of  our  world, — that  such  a 
strange  life  was  a  part  of  the  life  which  seems  to  us,  who 
are  living  it  now,  so  passionless  and  commonplace.  It  is 
only  when  I  stand  amid  ruined  castles,  that  look  at  me  so 
mournfully,  and  behold  the  heavy  armor  of  old  knights, 


170  HYPERION, 

hanging  upon  the  wainscot  of  Gothic  chambers  ;  or  when 
I  walk  amid  the  aisles  of  some  dusky  minster,  whose  walla 
are  narrative  of  hoar  antiquity,  and  whose  very  bells  have 
been  baptized,  and  see  the  carved  oaken  stalls  in  the  choir, 
where  so  many  generations  of  monks  have  sat  and  sung, 
and  the  tombs,  where  now  they  sleep  in  silence,  to  awake 
no  more  to  their  midnight  psalms  ; — it  is  only  at  such 
times  that  the  history  of  the  Middle  Ages  is  a  reality  to 
me,  and  not  a  passage  in  romance. 

"  Likewise  the  illuminated  manuscripts  of  those  ages 
have  something  of  this  power  of  making  the  dead  Past  a 
living  Present  in  my  mind.  What  curious  figures  are 
emblazoned  on  the  creaking  parchment,  making  its  yel 
low  leaves  laugh  with  gay  colors  !  You  seem  to  come  up- 
oa  them  unawares.  Their  faces  have  an  expression  of 
wonder.  They  seem  all  to  be  just  startled  from  their 
jleep  by  the  sound  you  made  when  you  unloosed  the 
brazen  clasps,  and  opened  the  curiously  carved  oaken 
covers,  that  turn  on  hinges,  like  the  great  gates  of  a  city. 
To  the  building  of  that  city  some  diligent  monk  gave  the 
whole  of  a  long  life.  With  what  strange  denizens  he 
peopled  it !  Adam  and  Eve  standing  under  a  tree,  she 
with  the  apple  in  her  hand ; — the  patriarch  Abraham, 
with  a  tree  growing  out  of  his  body,  and  his  descendants 
sitting  owl-like  upon  its  branches ; — ladies  with  flowing 
locks  of  gold  ;  knights  in  armor,  with  most  fantastic, 
long-toed  shoes;  jousts  and  tournaments;  and  Minne 
singers,  and  lovers  whose  heads  reach  to  the  towers  where 
their  ladies  sit ; — and  all  so  angular,  so  simple,  so  child 
like, — all  in  such  simple  attitudes,  with  such  great  eyes, 
and  holding  up  such  long,  lank  fingers  ! — These  things  are 
characteristic  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  persuade  me  of  tha 
truth  of  history." 


A  ROMANCE.  171 

At  this  moment  Berkley  entered,  with  a  Swiss  cottage, 
which  he  had  bought  as  a  present  for  somebody's  child  in 
England  ;  and  a  cane  with  a  chamois-horn  on  the  end  of 
it,  which  he  had  bought  for  himself.  This  was  the  first 
time  that  Flemming  had  been  sorry  to  see  the  good- 
natured  man.  His  presence  interrupted  the  delightful 
conversation  he  was  carrying  on  under  four  eyes  with 
Mary  Ashburton.  He  really  thought  Berkley  a  bore,  and 
wondered  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  before.  Mrs. 
Ashburton,  too,  must  needs  lay  down  her  book  ;  and  the 
conversation  became  general.  Strange  to  say,  the  Swiss 
dinner-hour  of  one  o'clock  did  not  come  a  moment  too 
soon  for  Flemming.  It  did  not  even  occur  to  him  thai;  it 
was  early  ;  for  he  was  seated  beside  Mary  Ashburton ; 
and  at  diiuuti  one  r-au  say  so  much,  without  being  over 
heard. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

APTER   DINNER,    AND  AFTER  THE   MANNER  OF  THB 
BEST   CRITICS. 

WHEN"  the  learned  Thomas  Diafoirus  wooed  the  fail 
Angelique,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  medical 
thesis,  and  presented  it  to  her,  as  the  first-fruits  of  his 
genius  ;  and  at  the  same  time  invited  her,  with  her  father's 
permission,  to  attend  the  dissection  of  a  woman,  upon 
whom  he  was  to  lecture.  Paul  Flemming  did  nearly  the 
game  thing ;  and  so  often,  that  it  had  become  a  habit. 
He  was  continually  drawing  from  his  pocket  or  his  mem 
ory  some  scrap  of  song  or  story  ;  and  inviting  some  fair 
Angelique,  either  with  her  father's  permission  or  without, 
to  attend  the  dissection  of  an  author  upon  whom  he  was 
to  lecture.  He  soon  gave  proofs  of  this  to  Mary  Ash- 
burton. 

"  What  books  have  we  here  for  afternoon  reading  ?  " 
said  Flemming,  taking  a  volume  from  the  parlor  table, 
when  they  had  returned  from  the  dining-room.  "  0,  it 
is  Uhland's  Poems.  Have  you  read  anything  of  his  ? 
He  and  Tieck  are  the  best  living  poets  of  Germany. 
They  dispute  the  palm  of  superiority.  Let  me  give  you 
a  lesson  in  German  this  afternoon,  Miss  Ashburton  ;  so 
that  no  one  may  accuse  you  of  'omitting  the  sweet 
benefit  of  time,  to  clothe  your  age  with  angel-like  per 
fection.'  I  have  opened  at  random  upon  the  ballad  of 
the  Black  Knight.  You  repeat  the  German  after  me, 
172 


A  ROMANCE.  1?3 

and  I  will  translate  to  you.  Pfingsten  war,  das  Fest  der 
Freude  !  " 

"  I  should  never  persuade  my  unwilling  lips  to  pro 
nounce  such  sounds.  So  I  beg  you  not  to  perplex  me 
with  your  German,  but  read  me  the  ballad  in  English." 

"Well,  then,  listen.  I  will  improvise  a  translation  foi 
your  own  particular  benefit. 

"  'Twas  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 
When  woods  and  fields  put  off  all  sadness. 
Thus  began  the  king,  and  spake  < 
'  So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hofburg's  walls 
A  luxuriant  spring  shall  break.' 

"  Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 
Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly. 
From  balcony  the  king  looked  on  ; 
In  the  play  of  spears, 
Fell  all  the  cavaliers 
Before  the  monarch's  stalwart  son. 

"  To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a  sable  knight. 
'  Sir  Knight  !  your  name  and  scutcheon  ?  s»y.' 
'  Should  I  speak  it  here, 
Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear  ; 
Am  a  pnnce  of  mighty  sway  ! ' 

**  When  he  *ode  into  the  lists, 
The  arch  f»<  heaven  grew  black  with  mists, 
And  the  c»»tle  'gan  to  rock. 
At  the  first  blow, 

Fell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow,— 
Hardly  rise*  from  the  shock. 

'*  Pipe  and  v»oi  call  the  dances, 
Torchlight  through  the  high  halls  glances, 
Waves  a  mighty  shadow  in  ; 


BYPEBION, 

With  manner  bland 

Doth  ask  the  maiden's  hand, 

Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin  : 

"  Danced  in  sable  iron  sark, 
Danced  a  measure  weird  and  dark, 
Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around. 
From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fall  from  her  the  fair 
Flowerets,  wilted,  to  the  ground. 

"  To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  Knight  and  every  Dame. 
'Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  King  reclined, 
Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

"  Pale  the  children  both  did  look, 
But  the  guest  a  beaker  took  : 
'  Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole  I ' 
The  children  drank, 
Gave  many  a  courteous  thank  : 
'  0,  that  draught  was  very  cool  t ' 

"  Each  the  father's  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter  ;  and  their  faces 
Colorless  grow  utterly. 
Whichever  way 

Looks  the  fear-struck  father  gray, 
He  beholds  his  children  die. 

** '  Woe  !  the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  : 
Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father  ! ' 
Spake  the  Grim  Guest, 
From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast : 
'  Roses  in  the  spring  I  gather  J ' * 


A  ROMANCE.  175 

"  That  is  indeed  a  striking  ballad  ! "  said  Miss  Ash- 
burton,  "  but  rather  too  grim  and  ghostly  for  this  dull 
afternoon." 

"  It  begins  joyously  enough  with  the  feast  of  Pentecost, 
and  the  crimson  banners  at  the  old  castle.  Then  the 
contrast  is  well  managed.  The  Knight  in  black  mail, 
and  the  waving  in  of  the  mighty  shadow  in  the  dance, 
and  the  dropping  of  the  faded  flowers,  are  all  strikingly 
presented  to  the  imagination.  However,  it  tells  its  own 
story,  and  needs  no  explanation.  Here  is  something  in 
a  different  vein,  though  still  melancholy.  The  Castle  by 
the  Sea.  Shall  I  read  it  ?" 

"Yes,  if  you  like." 

Flemming  read  : — 

"  '  Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle^ 

That  castle  by  the  sea  ? 
Golden  and  red  above  it 
The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

'"And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 

To  the  mirrored  wave  below; 
And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening's  crimson  glow.' 

0  « Well  have  I  seen  that  castle, 

That  castle  by  the  sea, 
And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 
And  the  mist  rise  solemnly.' 

•' '  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

Had  they  a  merry  chime  ? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers. 
The  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme? ' 

"  '  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 
They  rested  quietiy  ; 


176  HYPERION, 

But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail, 
And  tears  came  to  my  eye.' 

•'  And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 

The  King  and  his  royal  bride, 
And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles, 

And  the  golden  crown  of  pride? 

" '  Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A  beauteous  maiden  there, 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 
Beaming  with  golden  hair  ? ' 

'"Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 

Without  the  crown  of  pride ; 
They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  wot ; 
No  maiden  was  by  their  side  I 

"How  do  you  like  that  ?" 

"  It  is  very  graceful  and  pretty.  But  TJhland  seems  to 
leave  a  great  deal  to  his  reader's  imagination.  All  his 
readers  should  be  poets  themselves,  or  they  will  hardly  com 
prehend  him.  I  confess,  I  hardly  understand  the  passage 
where  he  speaks  of  the  castle  stooping  downward  to  the 
mirrored  wave  below,  and  then  soaring  upward  into  the 
gleaming  sky.  I  suppose,  however,  he  wishes  to  express 
the  momentary  illusion  we  experience  at  beholding  a  per 
fect  reflection  of  an  old  tower  in  the  sea,  and  look  at  it 
as  if  it  were  not  a  mere  shadow  in  the  water ;  and  yet  the 
real  tower  rises  far  above,  and  seems  to  float  in  the  crim 
son  evening  clouds.  Is  that  the  meaning  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  it  was.  To  me  it  is  all  a  beautiful 
cloud  landscape,  which  I  comprehend  and  feel,  and 
yet  should  find  some  difficulty,  perhaps,  in  explaining." 

"And  why  need  one  always  explain?  Some  feelinga 
are  quite  untranslatable.  No  language  has  yet  been 


A  ROMANCE.  177 

found  for  them.  They  gleam  upon  us  beautifully  through 
the  dim  twilight  of  fancy,  and  yet,  when  we  bring  them 
close  to  us,  aad  hold  them  up  to  the  light  of  reason,  lose 
their  beauty,  all  at  once  ;  as  glowworms,  which  glimmer 
with  such  a  spiritual  light  in  the  shadows  of  evening, 
when  brought  in  where  the  candles  are  lighted,  are  found 
to  be  only  worms,  like  so  many  others." 

"  Very  true.  "We  ought  sometimes  to  be  content  with 
feeling.  Here,  now,  is  an  exquisite  piece,  which  soothes 
one  like  the  fall  of  evening  shadows, — like  the  dewy  cool 
ness  of  twilight  after  a  sultry  day.  I  shall  not  give  you  a 
bald  translation  of  my  own,  because  I  have  laid  up  in  my 
memory  another,  which,  though  not  very  literal,  equals 
the  original  in  beauty.  Observe  how  finely  it  com 
mences. 

"  Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave 
Since  I  crossed  this  restless  wave, 
And  the  evening,  fair  as  ever, 
Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 

*'  Then,  iu  this  same  boat,  beside, 
Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried; 
One  with  all  a  father's  truth, 
One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

"  One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought, 
And  his  grave  in  silence  sought; 
But  the  younger,  brighter  form 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

"So,  whene'er  I  turn  my  eye 
Back  upon  the  days  gone  by, 
Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  tnt, 
Friends  who  closed  their  course  before  mo. 
12 


178  HYPERION, 

"  Yet  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend. 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore  ; 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more  ! 


"  Take,  0  boatmen,  thrice  thy  fee  ; 
Take, — I  give  it  willingly  ; 
For,  invisible  to  thee, 
Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me  ! " 

"  0,  that  is  beautiful, — beautiful  exceedingly  !  Who 
translated  it  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know.  I  wish  I  could  find  him  out.  It  is 
certainly  admirably  done  ;  though  in  the  measure  of  the 
original  there  is  something  like  the  rocking  motion  of 
a  feoat,  which  is  not  preserved  in  the  translation." 

"And  is  Uhland  always  so  soothing  and  spiritual  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  generally  looks  into  the  spirit- world.  I  am 
now  trying  to  find  here  a  little  poem  on  the  Death  of  a 
Country  Clergyman,  in  which  he  introduces  a  striking 
picture.  But  I  cannot  turn  to  it.  No  matter.  He 
describes  the  spirit  of  the  good  old  man,  returning  to 
earth  on  a  bright  summer  morning,  and  standing  amid 
the  golden  corn  and  the  red  and  blue  flowers,  and  mildly 
greeting  the  reapers  as  of  old.  The  idea  is  beautiful,  is 
it  not?" 

"  Yes,  very  beautiful ! " 

"  But  there  is  nothing  morbid  in  Uhland's  mind.  He 
is  always  fresh  and  invigorating,  like  a  breezy  morning. 
In  this  he  differs  entirely  from  such  writers  as  Salis  and 
Matthisson. " 

"And  who  are  they  ?" 

"  Two  melancholy  gentlemen  to  whom  life  was  only  a 
Dismal  Swamp,  upon  whose  margin  they  walked  with 


A  ROMANCE.  179 

cambric  hiindkerchiefs  in  their  hands,  sobbing  and  sigh 
ing,  and  making  signals  to  Death  to  come  and  ferry  them 
over  the  lake.  And  now  their  spirits  stand  in  the  green 
fields  of  German  song  like  two  weeping-willows  bending 
over  a  grave.  To  read  their  poems  is  like  wandering 
through  a  village  church-yard  on  a  summer  evening,  read 
ing  the  inscriptions  upon  the  grave-stones,  and  recalling 
sweet  images  of  the  departed  ;  while  above  you, 

'  Hark  !  in  the  holy  grove  of  palms, 

Where  the  stream  of  Hie  runs  free, 
Echoes,  in  the  angels'  psalms, 
Sister  spirit  !  hail  to  thee  I ' " 

"  How  musically  those  lines  flow  !  Are  they  Matthin- 
gon's  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  they  do  indeed  flow  musically.  I  wish  I 
had  his  poems  here.  I  should  like  to  read  to  you  his 
Elegy  on  the  Kuins  of  an  Ancient  Castle.  It  is  an 
imitation  of  Gray's  Elegy.  You  have  been  at  Baden- 
Baden  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  last  summer." 

"  And  have  not  forgotten " 

"  The  old  castle  ?  Of  course  not.  What  a  magnificent 
ruin  it  is  ! " 

"  That  is  the  scene  of  Matthisson's  poem,  and  seems  to 
have  filled  the  melancholy  bard  with  more  than  wonted 
inspiration. " 

"  I  should  very  much  like  to  see  the  poem, — I  remem 
ber  that  old  ruin  with  so  much  delight." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  have  not  a  translation  of  it  for  yon. 
Instead  of  it,  I  will  give  you  a  sweet  and  mournful  poem 
from  Salis.  It  is  called  The  Song  of  the  Silent  Land. 


180  HYPERION, 

"  Into  the  SUent  Land  ! 
Ah  !  who  shall  lead  us  thither  ? 
Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 
And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 
Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Thither,  O,  thither, 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

"  Into  the  Silent  Land ! 
To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 
Of  all  perfection  !    Tender  morning-visions 
Of  beauteous  souls  !    Eternity's  own  band  ! 
Who  in  Life's  battle  firm  doth  stand 
Shall  bear  Hope's  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land  I 

"  0  Land  !    0  Land  ! 
For  all  the  broken-hearted 
The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted 
Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 
To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 
Into  the  land  of  the  great  departed, 
Into  the  Silent  Land  1 

Is  not  that  a  beautiful  poem  ?" 

Mary  Ashburton  made  no  answer.  She  had  turned 
away  to  hide  her  tears.  Flemming  Avondered  that  Berk 
ley  could  say  she  was  not  beautiful.  Still  he  was  rather 
pleased  than  offended  at  it.  He  felt  at  that  moment  how 
eweet  a  thing  it  would  be  to  possess  one  who  should  seem 
beautiful  to  him  alone,  and  yet  to  him  be  more  beautiful 
than  all  the  world  beside  !  How  bright  the  world  became 
to  him  at  that  thought !  It  was  like  one  of  those  paint 
ings  in  which  all  the  light  streams  from  the  face  of  the 
Virgin.  0,  there  is  nothing  holier,  in  this  life  of  ours, 
than  the  iirst  consciousness  of  love, — the  first  fluttering 
of  its  silken  wings  ;  the  first  rising  sound  and  breath  of 


A  ROMANCE.  181 

wind  which  is  so  soon  to  sweep  through  the  soul,  to  purify 
or  to  destroy  ! 

Old  histories  tell  us  that  the  great  Emperor  Charle 
magne  stamped  his  edicts  with  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  The 
greater  Emperor,  Death,  stamps  his  with  the  blade  ;  and 
they  are  signed  and  executed  with  the  same  stroke.  Flem- 
ming  received  that  night  a  letter  from  Heidelberg,  which 
told  him  that  Emma  of  Ilmenau  was  dead.  The  fate  of 
this  poor  girl  affected  him  deeply ;  and  he  said  in  his 
heart  : 

"  Father  in  heaven  !  Why  was  the  lot  of  this  weak 
and  erring  child  so  hard  ?  What  had  she  done,  to  be  so 
tempted  in  her  weakness,  and  perish  ?  Why  didst  thou 
suffer  her  gentle  affections  to  lead  her  thus  astray  ?  " 

And,  through  the  silence  of  the  awful  midnight,  the 
voice  of  an  avalanche  answered  from  the  distant  moun 
tains,  and  seemed  to  say  : — 

"  Peace  !  peace  1  Why  dost  thou  question  God's  proyi- 
dence?" 


CHAPTER  VIL 

TAKE  CAKE  ! 

FAIR  is  the  valley  of  Lauterbmnnen,  with  its  green 
meadows  and  overhanging  cliffs.  The  ruined  castle 
of  Unspunnen  stands  like  an  armed  warder  at  the  gate  of 
the  enchanted  land.  In  calm  serenity  the  snowy  moun 
tains  rise  beyond.  Fairer  than  the  Rock  of  Balmarusa, 
yon  frowning  precipice  looks  down  upon  us ;  and,  from 
the  topmost  cliff,  the  white  pennon  of  the  Brook  of  Dust 
shimmers  and  waves  in  the  sunny  air  ! 

It  was  a  bright,  beautiful  morning  after  night-rain. 
Every  dew-drop  and  rain-drop  had  a  whole  heaven 
within  it ;  and  so  had  the  heart  of  Paul  Flemming,  as, 
with  Mrs.  Ashburton  and  her  dark-eyed  daughter,  he 
drove  up  the  Valley  of  Lauterbrunnen, — the  Valley  of 
Fountains-Only. 

"  How  beautiful  the  Jungfrau  looks  this  morning  1" 
exclaimed  he,  looking  at  Mary  Ashburton. 

She  thought  he  meant  the  mountain,  and  assented. 
But  he  meant  her  likewise. 

"And  the  mountains  beyond,"  he  continued,  "the 
Monk  and  the  Silver-horn,  the  Wetter-horn,  the  Schreck- 
horn,  and  the  Schwarz-horn, — all  those  sublime  apostles 
of  Nature,  whose  sermons  are  avalanches  !  Did  you  ever 
behold  anything  more  grand  ?  " 

"  0  yes  !   Mont  Blanc  is  more  grand,  when  you  behold 
it  from  the  hills  opposite.     It  was  there  that  I  was  most 
183 


A  ROMANCE.  183 

moved  by  the  magnificence  of  Swiss  scenery.  It  was  a 
morning  like  this ;  and  the  clouds,  that  were  hovering 
about  on  their  huge,  shadowy  wings,  made  the  scene  only 
the  more  magnificent.  Before  me  lay  the  whole  panorama 
of  the  Alps  ;  pine  forests  standing  dark  and  solemn  at 
the  base  of  the  mountains ;  and  half-way  up  a  veil  of 
mist ;  above  which  rose  the  snowy  summits  and  sharp 
needles  of  rock,  which  seemed  to  float  in  the  air,  like  a 
fairy  world.  Then  the  glaciers  stood  on  either  side,  wind 
ing  down  through  the  mountain  ravines ;  and  high  above 
all  rose  the  white,  dome-like  summit  of  Mont  Blanc. 
And  ever  and  anon  from  the  shroud  of  mist  came  the 
awful  sound  of  an  avalanche,  and  a  continual  roar,  as  of 
the  wind  through  a  forest  of  pines,  filled  the  air.  It  was 
the  roar  of  the  Arve  and  Aveiron,  breaking  from  their 
icy  fountains.  Then  the  mists  began  to  pass  away  ;  and 
it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  firmament  were  rolling  together. 
It  recalled  to  my  mind  that  sublime  passage  in  the  Apoc 
alypse  :  '  I  saw  a  great  white  throne,  and  him  that  sat 
thereon,  before  whose  face  the  heavens  and  the  earth  fled 
away,  and  found  no  place  ! ' — I  cannot  believe  that  upon 
this  earth  there  is  a  more  magnificent  scene  ! " 

"  It  must  be  grand  indeed,"  replied  Flemming.  "And 
those  mighty  glaciers, — huge  monsters  with  bristling 
crests,  creeping  down  into  the  valley  !  for  it  is  said  they 
really  move." 

"  Yes  ;  it  filled  me  with  a  strange  sensation  of  awe  to 
ihink  of  this.  /  They  seemed  to  me  like  the  dragons  of 
Northern  Romance,  which  come  down  from  the  moun 
tains  and  devour  whole  villages.  A  little  hamlet  in 
Chamouni  was  once  abandoned  by  its  inhabitants,  terri 
fied  at  the  approach  of  the  icy  dragon.  But  is  it  possible 
you  have  never  been  at  Chamouni  ?  " 


184  HYPERION, 

"Never.  The  great  marvel  still  remains  unseen  tty 
me." 

"  Then  how  can  you  linger  here  so  long  ?  Were  I  in 
your  place,  I  would  not  lose  an  hour." 

These  words  passed  over  the  opening  blossoms  of  hope 
in  the  soul  of  Flemmiug  like  a  cold  wind  over  the  flowers 
in  spring-time.  He  bore  it  as  best  he  could,  and  changed 
the  subject. 

I  do  net  mean  to  describe  the  valley  of  Lauterbrunnen, 
nor  the  bright  day  passed  there.  I  know  that  my  gentle 
reader  is  blessed  with  the  divine  gift  of  a  poetic  fancy  j 
and  can  see  already  how  the  mountains  rise,  and  the  tor 
rents  fall,  and  the  beautiful  valley  lies  between ;  and  how, 
along  the  dusty  road,  the  herdsman  blows  his  horn,  and 
travellers  come  and  go  in  charabancs,  like  Punch  ann 
Judy  in  a  show-box.  He  knows  already  how  romantic 
ladies  sketch  romantic  scenes  ;  and  how  cold  meat  tastes 
under  the  shadow  of  trees ;  and  how  time  flies,  when  we 
are  in  love,  and  the  beloved  one  near.  One  little  incident 
I  must,  however,  mention,  lest  his  fancy  should  not  sug 
gest  it. 

Flemmmg  was  still  sitting  with  the  ladies  on  the  green 
/slope  near  the  Staubbach,  or  Brook  of  Dust,  when  a 
young  man  clad  in  green  came  down  the  valley.  It  was 
a  German  mechanic,  with  flaxen  ringlets  hanging  over  his 
shoulders,  and  a  guitar  in  his  hand.  His  step  was  free 
and  elastic,  and  his  countenance  wore  the  joyous  expres 
sion  of  youth  and  health.  He  approached  the  company 
with  a  courteous  salutation ;  and,  after  the  manner  of 
travelling  students,  asked  charity  with  the  confident  air 
of  one  unaccustomed  to  refusal.  Nor  was  he  refused  in 
this  instance.  The  presence  of  those  we  love  makes  us 
Compassionate  and  generous.  Flemming  ga^<3  him  a  piece 


A  ROMANCE.  J83 

of  gold  ;  arid,  after  a  short  conversation,  he  seated  him 
self  at  a  little  distance  on  the  grass,  and  began  to  play 
and  sing.  Wonderful  and  many  were  the  sweet  accords 
and  plaintive  .sounds  that  came  from  that  little  instru 
ment,  touched  by  the  student's  hand.  Every  feeling  of 
the  human  heart  seemed  to  find  an  expression  there,  and 
awaken  a  kindred  feeling  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  heard 
iiim.  He  sang  strange  German  songs,  so  full  of  longing, 
and  of  pleasing  sadness,  and  hope,  and  fear,  and  passion 
ate  desire,  and  soul-subduing  sorrow,  that  the  tears  came 
into  Mary  Ashburton's  eyes,  though  she  understood  not 
the  words  he  sang.  Then  his  countenance  glowed  with 
triumph,  and  he  beat  the  strings  like  a  drum,  and  sang  :— 

"  0,  how  the  drum  beats  so  loud  ! 
Close  beside  me  in  the  fight, 
My  dying  brother  says,  Good  Night ! 
And  the  cannon's  awful  breath 
Screams  the  loud  halloo  of  Death  ! 

And  the  drum, 

And  the  drum, 

Beats  so  loud  ! " 

Many  were  the  words  of  praise  when  the  young  mu 
sician  ended ;  and,  as  he  rose  to  depart,  they  still  en 
treated  for  one  song  more.  Whereupon  he  played  a  lively 
prelude ;  and,  looking  full  into  Flemming's  face,  sang,, 
with  a  pleasant  smile  and  still  in  German,  this  little 
pong  :— 

"I  know  a  maiden  fair  to  see  $ 

Take  care  ! 
She  can  both  false  and  friendly  b*. 

Beware  !    Beware  i 
,  Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee  1 


186  HYPERION. 

"She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown  ; 

Take  care  ! 

She  gives  a  side-glance  and  looks  down. 
Beware  !    Beware  ! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  J 

"  And  she  has  hair  of  a  golden  hue  ; 

Take  care  ! 

And  what  she  says,  it  is  not  true. 
Beware  !    Beware  I 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

"  She  has  a  bosom  as  white  as  snow  ; 

Take  care  ! 

She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show. 
Beware  !     Beware  ! 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

"She  gives  thee  a  garland  woven  fair  ; 

Take  care  ! 

It  is  a  fool's  cap  for  thee  to  wear. 
Beware  !     Beware  1 
Trust  her  not, 
She  is  fooling  thee  ! " 

The  last  stanza  he  sung  in  a  laughing,  triumphant 
cone,  which  resounded  above  the  loud  clang  of  his  guitar 
like  the  jeering  laugh  of  Till  Eulenspiegel.  Then,  sling 
ing  his  guitar  ^ver  his  shoulder,  he  took  off  his  green  cap, 
and  made  a  leg  to  the  ladies,  in  the  style  of  Gil  Bias ; 
waved  his  hand  in  the  air,  and  walked  quickly  down  the 
valley,  singing,  "Ade  1  Ade  !  Ade  1" 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   FOUNTAIN   OF   OBLIVION. 

power  of  magic  in  the  Middle  Ages  created  mon« 
-*-  sters  who  followed  the  unhappy  magician  every* 
Avhere.  The  power  of  love  in  all  ages  creates  angels,  who 
likewise  follow  the  happy  or  unhappy  lover  everywhere, 
even  in  his  dreams.  By  such  an  angel  was  Paul  Flem- 
ming  now  haunted,  both  when  he  waked  and  when  he 
slept.  He  walked  as  in  a  dream,  and  was  hardly  con 
scious  of  the  presence  of  those  around  him.  A  sweet 
face  looked  at  him  from  every  page  of  every  book  lie  read  ; 
and  it  was  the  face  of  Mary  Ashburton  ! — a  sweet  voice 
spake  to  him  in  every  sound  he  heard ;  and  it  was  the 
voice  of  Mary  Ashburton  !  Day  and  night  succeeded  each 
other,  with  pleasant  interchange  of  light  and  darkness  ; 
but  to  him  the  passing  of  time  was  only  as  a  dream. 
When  he  arose  in  the  morning,  he  thought  only  of  her, 
and  wondered  if  she  were  yet  awake ;  and  when  he  lay 
down  at  night,  he  thought  only  of  her,  and  how,  like  the 
Lady  Christabel, 

"  Her  gentle  limbs  she  did  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness ." 

And  the  livelong  day  he  was  with  her,  either  in  reality 
or  in  day-dreams  hardly  less  real ;  for,  in  each  delirious 
yisioa  of  his  waking  hours,  her  beauteous  form  passed 

187 


188  HYPERION, 

like  the  form  of  Beatrice  through  Dante's  heaven  ;  and, 
as  he  lay  in  the  summer  afternoon,  and  heard  at  times 
the  sound  of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  and  the  sound  of  Sub- 
bath  bells  ascending  up  to  heaven,  holy  wishes  and  prayers 
ascended  with  them  from  his  inmost  soul,  beseeching  that 
he  might  not  love  in  vain  !  And  whenever,  in  silence 
and  alone,  he  looked  into  the  silent,  lonely  countenance 
of  Night,  he  recalled  the  impassioned  lines  of  Plato  : — 

"  Lookest  thou  at  the  stars  ?    If  I  were  heaven, 
With  all  the  eyes  of  heaven  would  I  look  down  on  thee  ! " 

0,  how  beautiful  it  is  to  love !  Even  thou,  that 
sneerest  at  this  page,  and  laughest  in  cold  indifference  or 
scorn,  if  others  are  near  thee, — thou  too  must  acknowl 
edge  its  truth,  when  thou  art  alone  ;  and  confess  that  a 
foolish  world  is  prone  to  laugh  in  public  at  what  in  pri 
vate  it  reverences,  as  one  of  the  highest  impulses  of  our 
nature, — namely,  Love  ! 

One  by  one  the  objects  of  our  affection  depart  from  us. 
But  our  affections  remain,  and  like  vines  stretch  forth 
their  broken,  wounded  tendrils  for  support.  The  bleed 
ing  heart  needs  a  balm  to  heal  it ;  and  there  is  none  but 
the  love  of  its  kind, — none  but  the  affection  of  a  human 
heart  !  Thus  the  wounded,  broken  affections  of  Flem- 
ming  began  to  lift  themselves  from  the  dust  and  cling 
around  this  new  object  Days  and  weeks  passed  ;  and, 
like  the  student  Crisostomo,  he  ceased  to  love,  because 
he  began  to  adore.  And  with  this  adoration  mingled  the 
prayer,  that,  in  that  hour  when  the  world  is  still,  and  the 
voices  that  praise  are  mute,  and  reflection  cometh  like 
twilight,  and  the  maiden,  in  her  day-dreams,  counted  the 
number  of  her  friends,  some  voice  in  the  sacred  silence  of 
her  thoughts  might  whisper  his  name  !  And  was  it  in« 


A  ROMANCE.  189 

deed  so  ?  Did  any  voice  in  the  sacred  silence  of  hei 
thoughts  whisper  his  name  ?  We  shall  soon  learn. 

They  were  sitting  together  one  morning,  on  the  green, 
flowery  meadow,  under  the  ruins  of  Burg  Unspunneu. 
She  was  sketching  the  ruins.  The  birds  were  singing, 
one  and  all,  as  if  there  were  no  aching  hearts,  no  sin  nor 
sorrow  in  the  world.  So  motionless  was  the  bright  air, 
that  the  shadow  of  the  trees  lay  engraven  on  the  grass. 
The  distant  snow-peaks  sparkled  in  the  sun,  and  no  Jiing 
frowned,  save  the  square  tower  of  the  old  ruin  above 
them. 

"  What  a  pity  it  is,"  said  the  lady,  as  she  stopped  to 
rest  her  weary  fingers,  "what  a  pity  it  is,  that  there  is  no 
old  tradition  connected  with  this  ruin  !  " 

"  I  will  make  you  one,  if  you  wish,"  said  Flemming. 

"  Can  you  make  old  traditions  ?  " 

"  0,  yes  !  I  made  three,  the  other  day,  about  the  Rhine, 
and  one  very  old  one  about  the  Black  Forest.  A  lady 
with  dishevelled  hair  ;  a  robber  with  a  horrible  slouched 
hat ;  and  a  night  storm  among  the  roaring  pines." 

"Delightful  !     Do  make  one  for  me." 

"With  the  greatest  pleasure.  Where  will  you  have 
the  scene  ?  Here,  or  in  the  Black  Forest  ?  " 

"  In  the  Black  Forest,  by  all  means  !    Begin." 

"First  promise  not  to  interrupt  me.  If  you  snap  the 
golden  threads  of  thought,  they  will  float  away  on  the  air 
like  the  film  of  the  gossamer  threads,  and  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  recover  them." 

"  I  promise." 

"Listen,  then,  to  the  tradition  of  THE  FOUNTAIN  o* 
OBLIVION." 

"  Begin." 

Flemming  was  reclining  on  the  flowery  turf,  at  the 


196  HYPERION, 

lady's  feet,  looking  up  with  dreamy  eyes  into  her  sweet 
face,  and  then  into  the  leaves  of  the  linden-trees  over 
head. 

"  Gentle  lady  !  Dost  thou  remember  the  linden-trees 
of  Biilach, — those  tall  and  stately  trees,  with  velvet  down 
upon  their  shining  leaves,  and  rustic  benches  underneath 
their  overhanging  eaves  ?  A  leafy  dwelling,  fit  to  be  the 
home  of  elf  or  fairy,  where  first  I  told  my  love  to  thee, 
thou  cold  and  stately  Hermione  !  A  little  peasant-girl 
stood  near,  and  listened  all  the  while,  with  eyes  of  wonder 
and  delight,  and  an  unconscious  smile,  to  hear  the 
stranger  still  speak  on,  in  accents  deep  yet  mild, — none 
else  was  with  us  in  that  hour,  save  God  and  that  peasant 
child  ! " 

"  Why,  it  is  in  rhyme  ! " 

"  No,  no  !  the  rhyme  is  only  in  your  imagination. 
You  promised  not  to  interrupt  me,  and  you  have  already 
snapped  asunder  the  gossamer  threads  of  as  sweet  a  dream 
as  was  ever  spun  from  a  poet's  brain." 

"  It  certainly  did  rhyme  !  " 

"  This  was  the  reverie  of  the  student  Hieronymus,  as 
he  sat  at  midnight  in  his  chamber,  with  his  hands  clasped 
together,  and  resting  upon  an  open  volume,  which  he 
should  have  been  reading.  His  pale  face  was  raised,  and 
the  pupils  of  his  eyes  dilated,  as  if  the  spirit-world  were 
open  before  him,  and  some  beauteous  vision  were  standing 
there,  and  drawing  the  student's  soul  through  his  eyes  up 
into  heaven, — as  the  evening  sun,  through  parting  sum 
mer-clouds,  seems  to  draw  into  its  bosom  the  vapors  of 
the  earth.  0,  it  was  a  sweet  vision  !  I  can  see  it  before 
me  now  ! 

"  Near  the  student  stood  an  antique  bronze  lamp,  with 
strange  figures  carved  upon  it.  It  was  a  magic  lamp, 


A  ROMANCE.  191 

which  once  belonged  to  the  Arabian  astrologer  El  Geber, 
in  Spain.  Its  light  was  beautiful  as  the  light  of  stars  ; 
and,  night  after  night,  as  the  lonely  wight  sat  alone  and 
read  in  this  lofty  tower,  through  the  mist,  and  murk, 
and  dropping  rain,  it  streamed  out  into  the  darkness, 
and  was  seen  by  many  wakeful  eyes.  To  the  poor  stu 
dent  Hieronymus  it  was  a  wonderful  Aladdin's  Lamp ; 
for  in  its  flame  a  Divinity  revealed  herself  unto  him,  and 
showed  him  treasures.  Whenever  he  opened  a  ponder 
ous,  antiquated  tome,  it  seemed  as  if  some  angel  opened 
for  him  the  gates  of  Paradise  ;  and  already  he  was  known 
in  the  city  as  Hieronymus  the  Learned. 

"  But,  alas  !  he  could  read  no  more.  The  charm  was 
broken.  Hour  after  hour  he  passed  with  his  hands 
clasped  before  him,  and  his  fair  eyes  gazing  at  vacancy. 
What  could  so  disturb  the  studies  of  this  melancholy 
wight  ?  Lady,  he  was  in  love  !  Have  you  ever  been  in 
love  ?  He  had  seen  the  face  of  the  beautiful  Hermione  ; 
and  as,  when  we  have  thoughtlessly  looked  at  the  sun, 
our  dazzled  eyes,  though  closed,  behold  it  still,  so  he  be 
held  by  day  and  by  night  the  radiant  image  of  her  upon 
Avhom  he  had  too  rashly  gazed.  Alas  !  he  was  unhappy  ; 
for  the  proud  Hermione  disdained  the  love  of  a  poor  stu 
dent,  whose  only  wealth  was  a  magic  lamp.  In  marble 
halls,  and  amid  the  gay  crowd  that  worshipped  her,  she 
had  almost  forgotten  that  such  a  being  lived  as  the  stu 
dent  Hieronymus.  The  adoration  of  his  heart  had  been 
to  her  only  as  the  perfume  of  a  wild-flower  which  she  had 
carelessly  crushed  Avith  her  foot  in  passing.  But  he  had 
lost  all ;  for  he  had  lost  the  quiet  of  his  thoughts  ;  and 
his  agitated  soul  reflected  only  broken  and  distorted  im 
ages  of  things.  The  world  laughed  at  the  poor  student, 
who,  in  his  threadbare  cassock,  dared  to  lift  his  eyes  to 


192  HYPERION, 

the  Lady  Hermione ;  while  he  sat  alone,  in  his  desolate 
chamber,  and  suffered  in  silence.  He  remembered  many 
things  which  he  would  fain  forget,  but  which,  if  he  had 
forgotten  them,  he  would  wish  again  to  remember.  Such 
were  the  linden-trees  of  Bulach,  under  whose  pleasant 
shades  he  had  told  his  love  to  Hermione.  This  was  the 
scene  which  he  wished  most  to  forget,  yet  loved  most  to 
remember  ;  and  of  this  he  was  now  dreaming,  with  his 
hands  clasped  upon  his  book,  and  that  kind  of  music  in 
his  thoughts,  which  you,  lady,  mistook  for  rhyme. 

"  Suddenly,  the  cathedral  clock  struck  twelve  with  a 
melancholy  clang.  It  roused  the  student  Hieronymus 
from  his  dream  ;  and  rang  in  his  ears,  like  the  iron  hoofs 
of  the  steeds  of  Time.  The  magic  hour  had  come,  when 
the  Divinity  of  the  lamp  most  willingly  revealed  herself 
to  her  votary.  The  bronze  figures  seemed  alive  ;  a  white 
cloud  rose  from  the  flame  and  spread  itself  through  the 
chamber,  whose  four  walls  dilated  into  magnificent  cloud- 
vistas  ;  a  fragrance,  as  of  wild-flowers,  filled  the  air ;  and 
a  dreamy  music,  like  distant,  sweet-chiming  bells,  an 
nounced  the  approach  of  the  midnight  Divinity.  Through 
his  streaming  tears  the  heart-broken  student  beheld  her 
once  more  descending  a  pass  in  the  snowy  cloud-moun 
tains,  as,  at  evening,  the  dewy  Hesperus  comes  from  the 
bosom  of  the  mist,  and  assumes  his  station  in  the  sky. 
At  her  approach,  his  spirit  grew  more  calm  ;  for  her  pres 
ence  was,  to  his  feverish  heart,  like  a  tropical  night, — 
beautiful  and  soothing  and  invigorating.  At  length  she 
stood  before  him,  revealed  in  all  her  beauty  ;  and  he  com 
prehended  the  visible  language  of  her  sweet  but  silent 
lips,  which  seemed  to  say,  '  What  would  the  student  Hier 
onymus  to-night  ? ' — '  Peace  ! '  he  answered,  raising  his 
clasped  hadds,  and  smiling  through  his  tears.  '  The  stu- 


A  ROMANCE.  193 

dent  Hieronymus  imploreth  peace  ! ' — '  Then  go,'  said 
the  spirit,  *  go  to  the  Fountain  of  Oblivion,  in  the  deep 
est  solitude  of  the  Black  Forest,  and  cast  this  scroll  into 
its  waters ;  and  thou  shalt  be  at  peace  once  more.' 
Hieronymus  opened  his  arms  to  embrace  the  Divinity, 
for  her  countenance  assumed  the  features  of  Hermione  ; 
but  she  vanished  away  ;  the  music  ceased ;  the  gorgeous 
cloud-land  sank  and  fell  asunder ;  and  the  student  was 
alone  within  the  four  bare  walls  of  his  chamber.  As  he 
bowed  his  head  downward,  his  eye  fell  upon  a  parchment 
scroll,  which  was  lying  beside  the  lamp.  Upon  it  was 
written  only  the  name  of  Hermione  ! 

"  The  next  morning  Hieronymus  put  the  scroll 
into  his  bosom,  and  went  his  way  in  search  of  the 
Fountain  of  Oblivion.  A  few  days  brought  him  to 
the  skirts  of  the  Black  Forest.  He  entered,  not  without 
a  feeling  of  dread,  that  land  of  shadows  ;  and  passed  on-  • 
ward,  under  melancholy  pines  and  cedars,  whose  branches 
grew  abroad  and  mingled  together,  and,  as  they  swayed 
up  and  down,  filled  the  air  with  solemn  twilight  and  a 
sound  of  sorrow.  As  he  advanced  into  the  forest,  the 
waving  moss  hung,  like  curtains,  from  the  branches  over 
head,  and  more  and  more  shut  out  the  light  of  heaven  ; 
and  he  knew  that  the  Fountain  of  Oblivion  was  not  far 
off.  Even  then  the  sound  of  falling  waters  was  mingling 
with  the  roar  of  the  pines  overhead  ;  and  erelong  he 
came  to  a  river,  moving  in  solemn  majesty  through  the 
forest,  and  falling,  with  a  dull,  leaden  sound  into  a 
motionless  and  stagnant  lake,  above  which  the  branches 
of  the  forest  met  and  mingled,  forming  perpetual  night. 
This  was  the  Fountain  of  Oblivion. 

"  Upon  its  brink  the  student  paused,  and  gazed  into 
the  dark  waters  with  a  steadfast  look.     They  were  limpid 
13 


194  HYPERION, 

waters,  dark  with  shadows  only.  And  as  he  gazed,  he 
beheld,  far  down  in  their  silent  depths,  dim  and  ill-de 
fined  outlines,  wavering  to  and  fro,  like  the  folds  of  a 
white  garment  in  the  twilight.  Then  more  distinct  and 
permanent  shapes  arose, — shapes  familiar  to  his  mind, 
yet  forgotten  and  remembered  again,  as  the  fragments  of 
a  dream  ;  till  at  length,  far,  far  below  him,  he  beheld  the 
great  City  of  the  Past,  with  silent  marble  streets,  and 
moss-grown  walls,  and  spires  uprising  with  a  wave-like, 
nickering  motion.  . 

"  And  amid  the  crowd  that  thronged  those  streets,  he 
beheld  faces  once  familiar  and  dear  to  him ;  and  heard 
sorrowful,  sweet  voices  singing,  0,  forget  us  not !  forget 
us  not  !  and  then  the  distant,  mournful  sound  of  funeral 
bells,  that  were  tolling  below,  in  the  City  of  the  Past. 
But  in  the  gardens  of  that  city  there  were  children  play 
ing,  and  among  them  one  who  wore  his  features,  as  they 
had  been  in  childhood.  He  was  leading  a  little  girl  by 
the  hand,  and  caressed  her  often,  and  adorned  her  with 
flowers.  Then,  like  a  dream,  the  scene  changed,  and  the 
boy  had  grown  older,  and  stood  alone,  gazing  into  the 
sky ;  and  as  he  gazed,  his  countenance  changed  again, 
and  Hieronymus  beheld  him,  as  if  it  had  been  his  own 
image  in  the  clear  water  ;  and  before  him  stood  a  beaute 
ous  maiden,  whose  face  was  like  the  face  of  HermionL-, 
and  he  feared  lest  the  scroll  had  fallen  into  the  water,  as 
he  bent  over  it. 

"  Starting,  as  from  a  dream,  he  put  his  hand  into  his 
bosom,  and  breathed  freely  again,  when  he  found  the 
scroll  still  there.  He  drew  it  forth,  and  read  the  blessed 
name  of  Hermione,  and  the  city  beneath  him  vanished 
away,  and  the  air  grew  fragrant  as  with  the  breath  oi 
May-flowers,  and  a  light  streamed  through  the  shadow} 


A  ROMANCE.  195 

forest,  and  gleamed  upon  the  lake  ;  and  the  student  Hier- 
onynras  pressed  the  dear  name  to  his  lips,  and  exclaimed, 
with  streaming  eyes  :  '  0,  scorn  me  as  thou  wilt,  still, 
still  will  I  love  thee ;  and  thy  name  shall  irradiate  the 
gloom  of  my  life,  and  make  the  waters  of  Oblivion  smile  ! ' 
And  the  name  was  no  longer  Hermione,  but  was  changed 
to  Mary  ;  and  the  student  Hieronymus?— is  lying  at  youj 
feet  1  0  gentle  Lady, 

'  I  did  hoar  you  talk 

Far  above  singing  ;  after  you  were  gone, 
I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  searched 
What  stirred  it  so  I    Alas  J  I  found  it  lore.'  * 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  TALK   OX    THE   STAIKS, 

"VTO  !  I  will  not  describe  that  scene  ;  nor  how  pale  tha 
JL.1  stately  lady  sat  on  the  border  of  the  green,  sunny 
meadow  I  The  hearts  of  some  women  tremble  like  leaves 
at  every  breath  of  love  which  reaches  them,  and  then  are 
still  again.  Others,  like  the  ocean,  are  moved  only  by 
the  breath  of  a  storm,  and  not  so  easily  lulled  to  rest. 
And  such  was  the  proud  heart  of  Mary  Ashburton.  It 
had  remained  unmoved  by  the  presence  of  this  stranger  ; 
and  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  and  his  voice  excited  in  ifc 
no  emotion.  He  had  deceived  himself  !  Silently  they 
walked  homeward  through  the  green  meadow.  The  very 
sunshine  was  sad  ;  and  the  rising  wind,  through  the  old 
ruin  above  them,  sounded  in  his  ears  like  a  hollow  laugh  ! 

Flemming  went  straight  to  his  chamber.  On  the  way, 
he  passed  the  walnut-trees  under  which  he  had  first  seen 
the  face  of  Mary  Ashburton.  Involuntarily  he  closed  his 
eyes.  They  were  full  of  tears.  0,  there  are  places  in  this 
fair  world  which  we  never  wish  to  see  again,  however  dear 
they  may  be  to  us  !  The  towers  of  the  ok!  Franciscan 
convent  never  looked  so  gloomily  as  then,  though  the 
bright  summer  sun  was  shining  full  upon  them. 

In  his  chamber  he  found  Berkley.  He  was  looking  out 
of  the  window,  whistling. 

"  This  evening  I  leave  Interlacheii  forever,"  said  Flenx* 
ming,  rather  abruptly.     Bexkley  stared. 
196 


A  ROMANCE.  137 

'"  In^cd  I  Pray  what  is  the  matter  ?  You  look  aa 
pale  as  a  ghost ! '' 

"And  have  good  reason  io  look  pale,"  replied  Flem- 
ming  bitterly.  "Hoffmann  says,  in  one  of  his  note 
books,  that  on  the  eleyenth  of  March,  at  half  past  eight 
o'clock,  precisely,  he  was  an  ttss.  That  is  what  I  was 
this  morning,  at  half  past  ten  o'clock,  precisely,  and  am 
now,  and  I  suppose  always  shall  be." 

lie  tried  to  laugh,  but  could  not.  lie  then  related  to 
Berkley  the  whole  story,  from  beginning  to  end. 

"  This  is  a  miserable  piece  of  business  ! "  exclaimed 
Berkley,  when  he  had  finished.  "  Strange  enough  ! 
And  yet  I  have  long  ceased  to  marvel  at  the  caprices  of 
women.  Did  not  Pan  captivate  the  chaste  Diana  ?  Did 
not  Titania  love  Nick  Bottom  with  his  ass's  head.  Do 
you  think  that  maidens'  eyes  are  no  longer  touched  with 
the  juice  of  love-in-idleness  ?  Take  my  word  for  it,  she 
is  in  love  with  somebody  else.  There  must  be  some  reason 
for  this.  No  ;  women  never  have  any  reasons,  except 
their  will.  But  never  mind.  Keep  a  stout  heart.  Care 
killed  a  cat.  After  all,— what  is  she  ?  Who  is  she  ? 
Only  a  - 

"  Hush  !  hush  ! "  exclaimed  Flemming,  in  great  excite 
ment.  "Not  one  word  more,  I  beseech  you.  Do  not 
think  to  console  me  by  depreciating  her.  She  is  very 
dear  to  me  still ;  a  beautiful,  high-minded,  noble  woman." 

"Yes,"  answered  Berkley  ;  "  that  is  the  way  with  you 
all,  you  young  men.  You  sec  a  sweet  face,  or  a  something, 
you  know  not  what,  and  flickering  reason  says,  Good 
night ;  amen  to  common  sense  !  The  imagination  invests 
tie  beloved  object  with  a  thousand  superlative  charms  ; 
adorns  her  with  all  the  purple  and  fine  linen,  all  the 
rich  apparel  and  furniture,  of  human-  nature.  I  did  the 


198 

same  when  I  was  young.  I  was  once  as  desperately  in 
lore  as  you  are  now  ;  and  went  through  all  the 

*  Delicious  deaths,  soft  exhalations 
Of  soul,  dear  and  divine  annihilations  ; 
A  thousand  unknown  rites 
Of  joys,  and  rarefied  delights.' 

I  adored  and  was  rejected.  '  You  are  in  love  with  certain 
attributes/  said  the  lady.  '  Damn  your  attributes,  Madam,' 
said  I:  'I  know  nothing  about  attributes.' — 'Sir,' said 
she,  with  dignity,  'you  have  been  drinking.' — So  we 
parted.  She  was  married  afterwards  to  another,  who 
knew  something  about  attributes,  I  suppose.  I  have  seen 
her  once  since,  and  only  once.  She  had  a  baby  in  a  yel 
low  gown.  I  hate  a  baby  in  a  yellow  gown.  How  glad  I 
am  she  did  not  marry  me  !  One  of  these  days,  you  will 
be  glad  you  have  been  rejected.  Take  my  word  for  it." 

"  All  that  does  not  prevent  my  lot  from  being  a  very 
melancholy  one  !  "  said  Flemming  sadly. 

" 0,  never  mind  the  lot,"  cried  Berkley  laughing,  "so 
long  as  you  don't  get  Lot's  wife.  If  the  cucumber  is  bit 
ter,  throw  it  away,  as  the  philosopher  Marcus  Antoninus 
says,  in  his  Meditations.  Forget  her,  and  all  will  be  as 
if  you  had  not  known  her. " 

"  I  shall  never  forget  her,"  replied  Flemming,  rather 
solemnly.  "  Not  my  pride,  but  my  affections  are 
wounded  ;  and  the  wound  is  too  deep  ever  to  heal.  I  shall 
carry  it  with  me  always.  I  enter  no  more  into  the  world, 
but  will  dwell  only  in  the  world  of  my  own  thoughts. 
All  great  and  unusual  occurrences,  whether  of  joy  or  sor* 
6OWj  lift  us  above  this  earth  ;  and  we  should  do  well  always 
to  preserve  this  elevation.  Hitherto  I  have  not  done  so. 


.4  ROMANCE.  199 

Bat  now  1  will  no  more  descend ;  I  will  sit  apart  and 
ibovj  Liu  Avorld,  with  my  mournful,  yet  holy  thoughts." 

"  Whew  !  You  had  better  go  into  society  ;  the  whirl 
and  delirium  will  cure  you  in  a  week.  If  you  find  a  lady 
who  pleases  you  very  much,  and  you  wish  to  marry  her, 
and  she  will  not  listen  to  such  a  horrid  thing,  I  see  but 
one  remedy,  which  is  to  find  another,  who  pleases  you 
more,  and  who  will  listen  to  it." 

"  No,  my  friend  ;  you  do  not  understand  my  character," 
raid  Flemming,  shaking  his  head.  "  I  love  this  woman 
with  a  deep  and  lasting  affection.  I  shall  never  cease  to 
love  her.  This  may  be  madness  in  me ;  but  so  it  is. 
Alas  and  alas  !  Paracelsus  of  old  wasted  life  in  trying  to 
discover  its  elixir,  which  after  all  turned  out  to  be  alco 
hol  ;  and  instead  of  being  made  immortal  upon  earth,  he 
died  drunk  on  the  floor  of  a  tavern.  The  like  happens 
to  many  of  us.  We  waste  our  best  years  in  distilling  the 
sweetest  flowers  of  life  into  love-potions,  which  after  all 
do  not  immortalize,  but  only  intoxicate  us.  By  Heaven  ! 
we  are  all  of  us  mad." 

"  But  are  you  sure  the  case  is  utterly  hopeless  ?  " 

"  Utterly  !  utterly  ! " 

"And  yet  I  perceivs  you  have  not  laid  aside  all  hope. 
You  still  flatter  yourself  that  the  lady's  heart  may  change. 
The  great  secret  of  happiness  consists  not  in  enjoying, 
but  in  renouncing.  But  it  is  hard,  very  hard.  Hope 
has  as  many  lives  as  a  cat  or  a  king.  I  dare  say  you  have 
heard  the  old  Italian  proverb,  'The  king  never  dies.' 
But  perhaps  you  have  never  heard  that,  at  the  court  of 
Naples,  when  the  dead  body  of  a  monarch  lies  in  state, 
his  dinner  is  carried  up  to  him  as  usual,  and  the  court 
physician  tastes  it,  to  see  that  it  be  not  poisoned,  and 
*v>  m  the  servants  bear  it  out  again,  saying,  '  The  king 


300  HYPERION, 

does  not  dine  to-day.'  Hope  in  our  souls  is  king  ;  anfl 
we  also  say,  '  The  king  never  dies.'  Even  when  in  reality 
he  lies  dead  within  us,  in  solemn  mockery  we  offer  him 
his  accustomed  food,  but  are  constrained  to  say,  'The 
king  does  not  dine  to-day.'  It  must  be  an  evil  day, 
indeed,  when  a  king  of  Naples  has  no  heart  for  his  din 
ner  !  but  you  yourself  are  a  proof  that  the  king  never 
dies.  You  are  feeding  your  king,  although  you  say  he 
is  dead." 

"  To  show  you  that  I  do  not  wish  to  cherish  hope," 
replied  Flciimimg,  "  I  shall  leave  Interlachen  to-morrow 
morning.  I  am  going  to  the  Tyrol." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Berkley;  "there  is  nothing  so 
good  for  sorrow  as  rapid  motion  in  the  open  air.  I  shall 
go  with  you  ;  though  probably  your  conversation  will  net 
be  very  various  ;  nothing  but  Edward  and  Kunigunde." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  Go  to  Berlin,  and  you  will  find  out.  However,  jest 
ing  apart,  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  cheer  you,  and  make  3-011 
forget  the  Dark  Ladie,  and  this  untoward  accident. " 

"Accident !  "  said  Flemming.  "  This  is  no  accident, 
but  God's  providence,  which  brought  us  together,  to 
punish  me  for  my  sins." 

"  0  my  friend,"  interrupted  Berkley,  "  if  you  see  the 
finger  of  Providence  so  distinctly  in  every  act  of  your  life, 
you  will  end  by  thinking  yourself  an  Apostle  and  Envoy 
Extraordinary.  I  see  nothing  so  very  uncommon  in  what 
has  happened  to  you." 

"  What !  not  when  our  souls  are  so  akin  to  each  other  ? 
when  we  seemed  so  formed  to  bo  together, — to  be  one  ?  " 

"  I  have  often  observed,"  replied  Berkley  coldly,  "  that 
those  who  are  of  kindred  souls  rarely  wed  together ; 
almost  as  rarely  as  those  who  are  akin  by  blood.  There- 


A  ROMANCE.  201 

fore,  mad  lover,  do  not  think  to  persuade  thyself  and  thy 
scornful  lady  that  you  have  kindred  souls  ;  but  rather  the 
contrary, — that  you  are  much  unlike,  and  each  wanting 
in  those  qualities  which  most  mark  and  distinguish  the 
other.  Trust  me,  thy  courtship  will  then  be  more  pros 
perous.  But  good  morning.  I  must  prepare  for  this 
sudden  journey." 

On  the  following  morning,  Flemming  and  Berkley 
started  on  their  way  to  Innsbruck,  like  Huon  of  Bor 
deaux  and  Schcrasmin  en  their  way  to  Babylon.  Berk 
ley's  self-assumed  duty  was  to  ^onsolo  his  companion  ;  a 
duty  which  he  performed  like  an  ancient  Spanish  Mata- 
dora,  a  woman  whose  business  was  to  attend  the  sick,  and 
put  her  elbow  into  the  utomach  of  the  dying,  to  shortes 
their  agony. 


BOOK    THE    FOURTH 
CHAPTER  I. 

A  MISERERE. 

IN  the  Orlando  Innamorato,  Malagigi,  the  necromancer, 
puts  all  the  company  to  sleep  by  reading  to  them  from 
a  book;  Some  books  have  this  power  of  themselves  and 
need  no  necromancer.  Fearing,  Gentle  Header,  that 
mine  may  be  of  this  kind,  I  have  provided  these  introduc 
tory  chapters  from  time  to  time,  like  stalls  or  Misereres 
in  a  church,  with  flowery  canopies  and  poppy-heads  over 
them,  where  thou  mayest  sit  down  and  sleep. 

No, — the  figure  is  not  a  bad  one.  This  book  does 
somewhat  resemble  a  minster,  in  the  Romanesque  style, 
with  pinnacles,  and  flying  buttresses  and  roofs, 

"  Gai-goyled  with  greyhounds,  and  with  many  lions 
Made  of  fine  gold,  with  divers  sundry  dragons." 

5Tou  step  into  its  shade  and  coolness  out  of  the  hot  streets 
ef  life  ;  a  mysterious  light  streams  through  the  painted 
glass  of  the  marigold  windows,  staining  the  cusps  and 
crumpled  leaves  of  the  window-shafts,  and  the  cherubs 
and  holy-water-stoups  below.  Here  and  there  is  an  image 
of  the  Virgin  Mary  ;  and  other  images,  "  in  divers  vestures 

203 


204 

called  weepers,  stand  in  housings  made  about  the  tomb".; 
and  above  all  swells  the  vast  dome  of  heaven,  with  its 
star-mouldings,  and  the  flaming,  constellations,  like  the 
mosaics  in  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's.  Have  you  not  heard 
funeral  psalms  from  the  chauntry  ?  Have  you  not  heard 
the  sound  of  church-bells,  as  I  promised, —  mysterious 
sounds  from  the  Past  and  Future,  as  from  the  belfries 
outside  the  cathedral, — even  such  a  mournful,  mellow, 
watery  peal  of  bells,  as  is  heard  sometimes  at  sea,  from 
cities  afar  off  below  the  horizon  ? 

I  know  not  how  this  Romanesque,  and  at  times  flam 
boyant,  style  of  architecture  may  please  the  critics. 
They  may  wish,  perhaps,  that  I  had  omitted  some  of  my 
many  ornaments,  my  arabesques,  and  roses,  and  fantastic 
spouts,  and  Holy-Roods  and  Galilee-steeples.  But  would 
it  then  have  been  Romanesque  ? 

But  perhaps,  Gentle  Reader,  thou  art  one  of  those  who 
think  the  day  of  romance  gone  forever.  Believe  it  not ! 
0,  believe  it  not !  Thou  hast  at  this  moment  in  thy 
heart  as  sweet  a  romance  as  was  ever  written.  Thou  art 
not  less  a  woman,  because  thou  dost  not  sit  aloft  in  a 
tower,  with  a  tassel-gentle  on  thy  wrist.  Thou  art  not 
less  a  man,  because  thou  wearest  no  hauberk,  nor  mail- 
sark,  and  goest  not  on  horseback  after  foolish  adventures. 
Nay,  nay  !  Every  one  has  a  romance  in  his  own  heart. 
All  that  has  blessed  or  awed  the  world  lies  there ;  and 

"  The  oracle  within  him,  that  which  lives, 
He  must  invoke  and  question, — not  dead  books, 
Not  ordinances,  not  mould-rotten  papers." 

Sooner  or  later,  some  passages  of  every  one's  romance 
must  be  written,  either  in  words  or  actions.  They  will 
proclaim  the  truth  ;  for  Truth  is  thought  which  has 


A  ROMANCE,  205 

assumed  its  appropriate  garments,  either  of  words  or  ac 
tions  ;  while  Falsehood  is  thought  which,  disguised  in 
words  or  actions  not  its  own,  comes  before  the  blind  old 
world,  as  Jacob  came  before  the  patriarch  Isaac,  clothed 
in  the  goodly  raiment  of  his  brother  Esau.  And  the 
world,  like  the  patriarch,  is  often  deceived ;  for  though 
the  voice  is  Jacob's  voice,  yet  the  hands  are  the  hands  of 
Esau,  and  the  False  takes  away  the  birthright  and  the 
blessing  from  the  True.  Hence  it  is  that  the  world  so 
often  lifts  up  its  voice  and  weeps. 

That  very  pleasing  and  fanciful  Chinese  romance,  the 
Shadow  in  the  Water,  ends  with  the  hero's  marrying  both 
the  heroines.  I  hope  my  gentle  reader  feels  curious  to 
know  the  end  of  this  romance,  which  is  a  shadow  upon 
the  earth  ;  and  see  whether  there  bo  any  marriage  at  all 
in  it. 

That  is  the  very  point  I  am  now  thinking  of,  as  I  sit 
here  at  my  pleasant  chamber-window,  and  enjoy  the 
balmy  air  of  a  bright  summer  morning,  and  watch  the 
motions  of  the  golden  robin  that  sits  on  its  swinging  nest 
on  the  outermost  pendulous  branch  of  yonder  elm.  The 
broad  meadows  and  the  steel-blue  river  remind  me  of  the 
meadows  of  Unterseen  and  the  river  Aar;  and  beyond 
them  rise  magnificent  snow-white  clouds,  piled  up  like 
Alps.  Thus  the  shades  of  "Washington  and  William  Tell 
seem  to  walk  together  on  these  Elysian  Fields  ;  for  it  was 
here  that,  in  days  long  gone,  our  great  patriot  dwelt ; 
and  yonder  clouds  so  much  resemble  the  snowy  Alps, 
that  they  remind  me  irresistibly  of  the  Swiss.  Noble  ex 
amples  of  a  high  purpose  and  a  fixed  will !  Do  they  not 
move,  Hyperion-like,  on  high  ?  Were  they  not,  likewise, 
eons  of  Heaven  and  Earth  ? 

Nothing  can  be  more  lovely  than  these  summer  morn- 


§06  HYPERION, 

ings ;  nor  than  the  southern  window  at  which  I  sit  and 
write,  in  this  old  mansion,  which  is  like  an  Italian  villa. 
But  0  this  lassitude, — this  weariness, — when  all  around 
me  is  so  bright !  I  have  this  morning  a  singular  longing 
for  flowers  ;  a  wish  to  stroll  among  the  roses  and  carna 
tions,  and  inhale  their  breath,  as  if  it  would  revive  me. 
I  wish  I  knew  the  man  who  called  flowers  "  the  fugitive 
poetry  of  Nature."  From  this  distance,  from  these  scho 
lastic  shades, — from  this  leafy,  blossoming,  and  beautiful 
Cambridge, — I  stretch  forth  my  hand  to  grasp  his,  as  the 
hand  of  a  poet ! — Yes  ;  this  morning  I  would  rather  stroll 
with  him  among  the  gay  flowers,  than  sit  here  and  write. 
I  feel  so  weary  I 

Old  men  with  their  staves,  says  the  Spanish  poet,  are 
ever  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  grave.  But  I  am  not 
old.  The  Spanish  poet  might  have  included  the  young 
also. — No  matter  !  Courage,  and  forward.  1  The  romance 
must  be  finished,  and  finished  soon. 

0  thou  poor  authorling  !  Reach  a  little  deeper  into 
the  human  heart !  Touch  those  strings, — touch  those 
deeper  strings,  and  more  boldly,  or  the  notes  will  die 
away  like  whispers,  and  no  ear  shall  hear  them,  save 
thine  own  !  And,  to  cheer  thy  solitary  labor,  remember 
that  the  secret  studies  of  an  author  are  the  sunken  piers 
upon  which  is  to  rest  the  bridge  of  his  fame,  spanning 
the  dark  waters  of  Oblivion.  They  are  out  of  sight ;  but 
without  them  no  superstructure  can  stand  secure  ! 

And  now,  Reader,  since  the  sermon  is  over,  and  wo  are 
still  sitting  here  in  this  Miserere,  let  us  read  aloud  a  page 
from  the  old  parchment  manuscript  on  the  lettern  before 
us  ;  let  us  sing  it  through  these  dusky  aisles,  like  a  Ore--, 
gorian  chant,  and  startle  the  sleeping  congregation  ! 

"  I  have  read  of  the  great  river  Euripus,  which 


A  ROMANCE.  $07 

and  floweth  seven  times  a  day,  and  with  sack  violence 
that  it  carrieth  ships  upon  it  \lit\\  full  sail  directly  against 
the  wind.  Seven  times  in  an  hour  ebbcth  and  floweth 
rash  opinion  in  the  torrent  of  indiscreet  and  troublesome 
apprehensions,  carrying  critic  calumny  and  squint-eyed 
detraction  mainly  against  the  wind  of  wisdom  and  judg 
ment." 
In  scculu  seculorum  I  Amen  1 


CHAPTER  H. 


WELCOME,  Disappointment  I  Thy  hand  is  cold 
and  hard,  but  it  is  the  hand  of  a  friend  !  Thv 
voice  is  stern  and  harsh,  but  it  is  the  Toice  of  a  friend  1 
0,  there  is  something  sublime  in  calm  endurance,  some 
thing  sublime  in  the  resolute,  fixed  purpose  of  suffering 
without  complaining,  which  makes  disappointment  often 
times  better  than  success  ! 

The  Emperor  Isaac  Angelus  made  a  treaty  with  Saladin, 
and  tried  to  purchase  the  Holy  Sepulchre  with  gold. 
Richard  Lion-heart  scorned  such  alliance,  and  sought  t 
recover  it  by  battle.  Thus  do  weak  minds  make  treaties 
with  the  passions  they  cannot  overcome,  and  tiy  to  pur 
chase  happiness  at  the  expense  of  principle.  But  the 
resolute  will  of  a  strong  man  scorns  such  means,  and 
struggles  nobly  with  his  foe  to  achieve  great  deeds. 
Therefore,  whosoever  thou  art  that  sufferest,  tiy  not  to 
dissipate  thy  sorrow  by  the  breath  of  the  world,  nor  drown 
its  voice  in  thoughtless  merriment.  It  is  a  treacherous 
peace  that  is  purchased  by  indulgence.  Rather  take  this 
sorrow  to  thy  heart,  and  make  it  a  part  of  thee,  and  it 
shall  nourish  thee  till  thou  art  strong  again. 

The  shadows  of  the  mind  are  like  those  of  the  body. 

In  the  morning  of  life,  they  all  lie  behind  us  ;  at  noon, 

we  trample  them  under  foot ;  and  in  the  evening,  they 

stretch  long,  broad,  and  deepening  before  us.    Are  not, 

308 


A  ROMANCE.  209 

then,  the-  sorrows  of  childhood  as  dark  as  those  of  age  ? 
Are  not  the  morning  shadows  of  life  as  deep  and  broad  as 
those  of  its  evening  ?  Yes ;  but  morning  shadows  soon 
fade  away,  while  those  of  evening  reach  forward  into  the 
night,  and  mingle  with  the  coming  darkness.  Man  is 
begotten  in  delight  and  born  in  pain ;  and  in  these  are 
the  rapture  and  labor  cf  his  life  foreshadowed  from  tho 
beginning.  But  the  life  of  man  upon  this  fair  earth  is 
made  up,  for  the  most  part,  of  little  pains  and  little 
pleasures.  The  great  wonder-flowers  bloom  but  once  in 
a  lifetime. 

A  week  has  already  elapsed  since  the  events  recorded  in 
the  List  chapter.  Paul  Flemming  went  his  way,  a  melan 
choly  man,  "  drinking  the  sweet  wormwood  of  his  sor 
row."  He  did  not  rail  at  Providence  and  call  it  fate,  but 
suffered  and  was  silent.  It  is  a  beautiful  trait  in  the 
lover's  character,  that  he  thinks  no  evil  of  the  object 
loved.  What  he  suffered  was  no  swift  storm  of  feeling, 
that  passes  away  with  the  noise  and  leaves  the  heart 
clearer ;  but  a  dark  phantom  had  risen  up  in  the  clear 
night,  and,  like  that  of  Adamastor,  hid  the  stars  ;  and  if 
it  ever  vanished  away  for  a  season,  still  the  deep  sound  of 
the  moaning  main  would  be  heard  afar,  through  many 
a  dark  and  lonely  hour.  And  thus  he  journeyed  on, 
wrapped  in  desponding  gloom,  and  mainly  heedless  of  all 
things  around  him.  His  mind  was  distempered.  That 
one  face  was  always  before  him;  that  one  voice  was  forever 
saying  :— 

"  You  are  not  the  Magician." 

Painful  indeed  it  is  to  be  misunderstood  and  under- 
valued  by  those  we  love.     But  this,  too,  in  our  life,  must 
wo    learn    to  bear  without  a  murmur  j  for  it  is  a  *«le 
often  repeated. 
U 


210  HYPERION, 

There  are  persons  in  this  world  to  whom  all  local 
associations  are  naught.  The  genius  of  the  place 
speaks  not  to  them.  Eyen  on  battle-fields,  where  the 
Voice  of  this  genius  is  wont  to  be  loudest,  they  hear 
only  the  sound  of  their  own  voices  ;  they  meet  there  only 
their  own  dull  and  pedantic  thoughts,  as  the  old  gram 
marian  Brunetto  Latini  met  on  the  plain  of  Roncesvallcs 
a  poor  student  riding  on  a  bay  mule.  This  was  not 
always  the  case  with  Paul  Flemming,  but  it  had  become 
so  now.  He  felt  no  interest  in  the  scenery  around  him. 
He  hardly  looked  at  it.  Even  the  difficult  mountain- 
passes,  where,  from  his  rocky  eyrie,  the  eagle-eyed  Tyrol- 
ese  peasant  had  watched  his  foe,  and  the  roaring,  turbid 
torrent  underneath,  which  had  swallowed  up  the  bloody 
corse,  that  fell  from  the  rocks  like  a  crushed  worm, 
awakened  no  lively  emotion  in  his  breast.  All  around 
him  eeemed  dreamy  and  vague ;  all  within  dim,  as  in  a 
sun's  eclipse.  As  the  moon,  whether  visible  or  invisible, 
has  power  over  the  tides  of  the  ocean,  so  the  face  of  that 
lady,  whether  present  or  absent,  had  power  over  the  tides 
of  his  soul ;  both  by  day  and  night,  both  waking  and 
sleeping.  In  every  pale  face  and  dark  eye  he  saw  a  re 
semblance  to  her  ;  and  what  the  day  denied  him  in  real 
ity  the  night  gave  him  in  dreams. 

"This  is  a  strange,  fantastic  world,"  said  Berkley, 
after  a  very  long  silence,  during  which  the  two  travellers 
had  been  sitting  each  in  his  corner  of  the  travelling-car 
riage,  wrapped  in  his  own  reflections.  "  A  very  strange, 
fantastic  world  ;  where  each  one  pursues  his  own  golden 
bubble,  and  laughs  at  his  neighbor  for  doing  the  same.  I 
have  been  thinking  how  a  moral  Linnasus  would  classify 
our  race.  I  think  he  would  divide  it, — not  as  Loru 
Byron  did,  into  two  great  classes,  the  bores  and  those 


JL  ROMANCE.  211 

who  are  bored, — but  into  three,  namely,  Happy  Men, 
Lucky  Dogs,  and  Miserable  Wretches.  This  is  mere  true 
and  philosophical,  though  perhaps  not  quite  so  compre 
hensive.  He  is  the  Happy  Man,  who,  blessed  with 
modest  ease,  a  wife  and  children,  sits  enthroned  in  the 
hearts  of  his  family,  and  knows  no  other  ambition  than 
that  of  making  those  around  him  happy.  But  the  Lucky 
Dog  is  he,  who,  free  from  all  domestic  cares,  saunters  up 
and  down  his  room,  in  morning  gown  and  slippers ; 
drums  on  the  window,  of  a  rainy  day ;  and,  as  he  stirs 
his  evening  fire,  snaps  his  fingers  at  the  world,  and  says, 
'I  have  no  wife  nor  children,  good  or  bad,  to  provide 
for.'  I  had  a  friend  who  is  now  no  more.  He  was  taken 

away  in  the  bloom  of  life,  by  a  very  rapid widow. 

He  was  by  birth  and  by  profession  a  beau, — bora  with  a 
quizzing-glass  and  a  cane.  Cock  of  the  walk,  he  flapped 
his  wings,  and  crowed  among  the  feathered  tribe.  But, 
alas  !  a  fair,  white  partlet  has  torn  his  crest  out,  and  he 
shall  crow  no  more.  You  will  generally  find  him  of  a 
morning,  smelling  round  a  beef-cart,  with  domestic  feli 
city  written  in  every  line  of  his  countenance  ;  and  some 
times  meet  him  in  a  cross-street  at  noon,  hurrying  home 
ward,  with  a  beefsteak  on  a  wooden  skewer,  or  a  fresh 
fish,  with  a  piece  of  tarred  twine  run  through  its  gills. 
In  the  evening  he  rocks  the  cradle,  and  gets  up  in  the 
night  when  the  child  cries.  Like  a  Goth  of  the  Dark 
Ages,  ho  consults  his  wife  on  all  mighty  matters,  and 
looks  upon  her  as  a  being  of  more  than  human  goodness 
and  wisdom.  In  short,  the  women  all  say  he  is  a  very 
domestic  man,  and  makes  a  good  husband  ;  which,  under 
the  rose,  is  only  a  more  polite  way  of  saying  he  is  hen 
pecked.  He  is  a  Happy  Man.  I  have  another  dear 
{riend,  who  is  a  sexagenary  bachelor.  He  has  one  of 


212  HYPERION, 

those  well-oiled  dispositions  which  turn  upon  the  hingea 
of  the  world  without  creaking.  The  heyday  of  life  is 
over  with  him ;  but  his  old  age  is  sunny  and  chirping  ; 
and  a  merry  heart  still  nestles  in  his  tottering  frame,  like 
a  swallow  that  builds  in  a  tumble-down  chimney.  He  is 
a  professed  Squire  of  Dames.  The  rustle  of  a  silk  gown 
is  music  to  his  ears,  and  his  imagination  is  continually 
lantern-led  by  some  will-with-a-wisp  in  the  shape  of  a 
lady's  stomacher.  In  his  devotion  to  the  fair  sex — the 
muslin,  as  he  calls  it — he  is  the  gentle  flower  of  chivalry. 
It  is  amusing  to  see  how  quick  he  strikes  into  the  scent 
of  a  lady's  handkerchief.  When  once  fairly  in  pursuit, 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  throwing  him  off.  His  heart 
looks  out  at  his  eye  ;  and  his  inward  delight  tingles  down 
to  the  tail  of  his  coat.  He  loves  to  bask  in  the  sunshine 
of  a  smile  ;  when  he  can  breathe  the  sweet  atmosphere  of 
kid  gloves  and  cambric  handkerchiefs,  his  soul  is  in  its 
element ;  and  his  supreme  delight  is  to  pass  the  morning, 
to  use  his  own  quaint  language,  in  making  dodging  calls, 
and  wiggling  round  among  the  ladies  !  He  is  a  Lucky 
Dog." 

"And  as  a  specimen  of  the  class  of  Miserable  Wretches, 
I  suppose  you  will  take  me,"  said  Flemming,  making  an 
effort  to  enter  into  his  friend's  humor.  "  Certainly  I  am 
wretched  enough.  You  may  make  me  the  stuffed  bear, 
— the  specimen  of  this  class." 

"By  no  means,"  replied  Berkley;  "you  are  not  re* 
duced  so  low.  He  only  is  utterly  wretched,  who  is  the 
•lave  cf  his  own  passions,  or  those  of  others.  This,  I 
trust,  will  never  be  your  condition.  Why  so  wan  and  pale, 
fond  lover?  Do  you  remember  Sir  John  Suckling's 
song? 


A  ROMANCE.  214 

'  Why  so  wan  and  pale,  fond  lover  ? 

Pr'ythee  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  if  looking  well  can't  move  her, 
Looking  ill  prevail  ? 
IVythee  why  so  pale  ? 

'  Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 

Pr'ylheo  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  if  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 
Saying  nothing  do't  ? 
Pr'ythec  why  so  mute  ? 

'  Quit,  quit,  for  shame  !  this  cannot  more, 

This  cannot  take  her  ! 
If  of  herself  she  do  not  love, 
Nothing  will  make  her  1 
The  devil  take  her  !  ' 

How  do  you  like  that  ?  " 

"  To  you  I  say  quit,  quit  for  shame  ! "  replied  Flem- 
ming.  "  Why  quote  the  songs  of  that  witty  and  licen- 
tioiis  age  ?  Have  you  no  better  consolation  to  offer  me  ? 
How  many,  many  times  must  I  tell  you,  that  I  bear  the 
lady  no  ill-will  ?  I  do  not  blame  her  for  not  loving  me. 
I  desire  her  happiness,  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  my  own." 

"  That  is  generous  in  you,  and  deserves  a  better  fate. 
But  you  are  so  figurative  in  all  you  say,  that  a  stranger 
would  think  you  had  no  real  feeling,  and  only  fancied 
yourself  in  love  ! " 

"  Expression  of  feeling  is  different  with  different  minds. 
It  is  not  always  simple.  Some  minds,  when  excited, 
naturally  speak  in  figures  a.:d  similitudes.  They  do  not 
on  that  account  feel  less  deeply.  This  is  obvious  in  our 
commonest  modes  of  speech.  It  depends  upon  the  i 
vidual." 

"  Kyrie  Eleeson  1 " 


214  HYPERION* 

"  Well,  abuse  my  figures  of  speech  as  much  as  yoq 
please.  What  I  insist  upon  is,  that  you  shall  not  abusa 
the  lady.  When  did  you  ever  hear  me  breathe  a  whispei 
against  her  ?  " 

"  Oho  !    Now  you  speak  like  Launcc  to  his  dog  ! " 

Their  conversation,  which  hud  begun  so  merrily,  was 
here  suddenly  interrupted  by  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder, 
that  announced  a  near-approaching  storm.  It  was  late 
in  the  afternoon,  and  the  whole  heaven  black  with  low, 
trailing  clouds.  Still  blacker  the  storm  came  sailing  up 
majestically  from  the  southwest,  with  almost  unbroken 
volleys  of  distant  thunder.  The  wind  seemed  to  be 
storming  a  cloud-redoubt ;  and  marched  onward  with 
dust,  and  the  green  banners  of  the  trees  flapping  in  the 
air,  and  heavy  cannonading,  and  occasionally  an  explo 
sion,  like  the  blowing  up  of  a  powder- wagon.  Mingled 
with  this  was  the  sound  of  thunder-bells  frem  a  village 
not  far  off.  They  were  all  ringing  dolefully  to  ward  off 
the  thunderbolt.  At  the  entrance  cf  the  village  stood  a 
large  wooden  crucifix,  around  which  was  a  crowd  of  priests 
and  peasants,  kneeling  in  the  wet  grass,  by  the  roadside, 
with  their  hands  and  eyes  lifted  to  heaven,  and  praying 
for  rain.  Their  prayer  was  soon  answered. 

The  travellers  drove  on  with  the  driving  wind  and  rain. 
They  had  come  from  Landeck,  and  hoped  to  reach  Inns 
bruck  before  midnight.  Night  closed  in,  and  Flemming 
ft)ll  asleep  with  the  loud  storm  overhead,  and  at  his  feet 
the  roaring  Inn,  a  mountain  torrent  leaping  onward  as 
wild  and  restless  as  when  it  fi.st  sprang  from  its  cradle  in 
the  solitudes  of  Engaddin  ;  meet  emblem  of  himself,  thus 
rushing  through  the  night.  His  slumber  was  long,  but 
broken  ;  and  at  length  he  awoke  in  terror ;  for  he  heard 
a  Toice  proncunce  in  his  ear  distinctly  these  wo  xls  : — 


A  ROMANCE.  215 

"  They  have  brought  the  dead  body." 

They  were  driving  by  a  churchyard  at  tLe  sntrance 
of  a  town  ;  and  among  the  tombs  a  dim  lamp  was  burn 
ing  before  an  image  of  the  Virgin.  It  had  a  most  un 
earthly  appearance.  Flemming  almost  feared  to  see  the 
congregation  of  the  dead  go  into  the  church  and  sing 
their  midnight  mass.  He  spoke  to  Berkley,  but  received 
no  answer  ;  he  was  in  a  deep  sleep. 

"  Then  it  was  only  a  dream,"  he  said  to  himself  ;  "yet 
how  distinct  the  voice  was  !  0,  if  we  had  spiritual  or 
gans,  to  see  and  hear  things  now  invisible  and  inaudible 
to  us,  we  should  behold  the  whole  air  filled  with  the  de 
parting  souls  of  that  vast  multitude  which  every  moment 
dies, — should  behold  them  streaming  up  like  thin  vapors 
heavenward,  and  hear  the  startling  blast  of  the  arch 
angel's  trump  sounding  incessant  through  the  universe, 
and  proclaiming  the  awful  judgment-day !  Truly,  the 
soul  departs  not  alone  on  its  last  journey,  but  spirits  of 
its  kind  attend  it,  when  not  ministering  angels  ;  and  they 
go  in  families  to  the  unknown  land  !  Neither  in  life  nor 
in  death  are  we  alone." 

He  slept  again  at  intervals ;  and  at  length,  though 
long  after  midnight,  reached  Innsbruck  between  sleeping 
and  waking ;  his  mind  filled  with  dim  recollections  of 
the  unspeakably  dismal  night  journey  ; — the  climbing  of 
hills,  and  plunging  into  dark  ravines ;  the  momentary 
rattling  of  the  wheels  over  paved  streets  of  towns,  and 
the  succeeding  hollow  rolling  and  tramping  on  the  wet 
earth  ;  the  blackness  of  the  night ;  the  thunder  and  light 
ning  and  rain  ;  the  roar  of  waters,  leaping  through  deep 
chasms  by  the  roadside  ;  and  the  wind  through  the  moun 
tain-passes,  sounding  loud  and  long,  like  the  irrepressible 
laughter  of  the  gods. 


The  travellers  on  the  morrow  lingered  not  long  in  Inns 
bruck.  They  did  not  fail,  however,  to  visit  the  tomb  of 
Maximilian  in  the  Franciscan  Church  of  the  Holy  Cross, 
and  gaze  with  some  admiration  upon  the  twenty-eight  gi 
gantic  bronze  statues  of  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  and  King 
Arthur,  and  Ernest  the  Iron-man,  and  Frederick  of  the 
Empty  Pockets,  kings  and  heroes,  and  others,  which 
stand  leaning  on  their  swords  between  the  columns  of  the 
church,  as  if  guarding  the  tomb  of  the  dead.  These 
statues  reminded  Flemming  of  the  bronze  giants  which 
strike  the  hours  on  the  belfry  of  San  Basso,  in  Venice, 
and  of  the  flail-armed  monsters  that  guarded  the  gateway 
of  Angulaffer's  castle  in  Oberon.  After  gazing  awhile  at 
these  motionless  sentinels,  they  went  forth,  and  strolled 
through  the  public  gardens,  with  the  jagged  mountains 
right  over  their  heads,  and  all  around  them  tall,  melan 
choly  pines,  like  Tyrolese  peasants,  with  shaggy  hair  ; 
and  at  their  feet  the  mad  torrent  of  the  Inn,  sweeping 
with  turbid  waves  through  the  midst  of  the  town.  In  the 
afternoon,  they  drove  on  towards  Salzburg,  through  the 
magnificent  mountain-passes  of  Waideriug  and  Unkeu. 


CHAPTER  III. 

SHADOWS   ON   THE  WALL. 

ON  the  following  morning,  Flemming  awoke  in  a 
chamber  of  the  Golden  Ship  at  Salzburg,  just  as  the 
clock  in  the  Dome  Church  opposite  was  striking  ten.  The 
window-shutters  were  closed,  and  the  room  was  nearly 
dark.  He  was  lying  with  his  hands  crossed  upon  his 
breast,  and  his  eyes  looking  up  at  the  white  curtains  over 
head.  He  thought  them  the  white  marble  canopy  of 
a  tomb,  and  himself  the  marble  statue  lying  beneath. 
When  the  clock  ceased  striking,  the  eight-and-twenty  gi 
gantic  bronze  statues  from  the  Church  of  Holy  Eood  in 
Innsbruck  stalked  into  the  chamber,  and  arranged  them 
selves  along  the  walls,  which  spread  into  dimly  lighted 
aisles  and  arches.  On  the  painted  windows  he  saw  Inter- 
lachen,  with  its  Franciscan  cloister,  and  the  Square  Tower 
of  the  ruins.  In  a  pendant,  overhead,  stood  the  German 
mechanic,  as  Saint  Vitus  ;  and  on  a  lavatory,  below,  sat 
a  cherub,  with  the  form  and  features  of  Berkley.  Then 
the  organ-pipes  began  to  blow,  and  he  heard  the  voices  of 
an  invisible  choir  chanting.  And  anon  the  gilded  gates 
in  the  bronze  screen  before  the  chancel  opened,  and  a 
bridal  procession  passed  through.  The  bride  was  clothed 
in  the  garb  of  the  Middle  Ages  ;  and  held  a  book  in  her 
hand,  with  velvet  covers,  and  golden  clasps.  It  was  Mary 
Ashburton.  She  looked  at  him  as  she  passed.  Her  face 
was  pale,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  sweet  eyes.  Then 
217 


218 

the  gates  closed  again  ;  and  one  of  the  oaken  poppy-heads 
over  a  carved  stall,  in  the  shape  of  an  owl,  flapped  its 
broad  wings,  and  hooted,  "  To-whit  !  to-whoo  !  "  Then 
the  whole  scene  changed  ;  and  he  thought  himself  a 
monk's-head  on  a  gutter-spout ;  and  it  rained  dismally  ; 
and  Berkley  was  standing  underneath  with  an  umbrella, 
laughing  ! 

In  other  words,  Flemming  was  in  a  raging  fever,  and 
delirious.  lie  remained  in  this  state  for  a  week.  The 
first  thing  he  was  conscious  of  was  hearing  the  doctor  say 
to  Berkley  : — 

"  The  crisis  is  passed.  I  now  consider  him  out  of  dan- 
ger." 

He  then  fell  into  a  sweet  sleep  ;  the  wild  fever  had 
swept  away  like  an  angry,  red  cloud,  and  the  refreshing 
summer  rain  began  to  fall  like  dew  upon  the  parched 
earth.  Still  another  week,  and  Flemming  was  "sitting 
clothed,  and  in  his  right  mind."  Berkley  had  been  read 
ing  to  him  ;  and  still  held  the  book  in  his  hand,  with  his 
fore-finger  between  the  leaves.  It  was  a  volume  of  Hoff 
mann's  writings. 

"How  very  strange  it  is,"  said  he,  "that  you  can 
hardly  open  the  biography  of  any  German  author,  but 
you  will  find  it  begin  with  an  account  of  his  grandfather  ! 
It  will  tell  you  how  the  venerable  old  man  walked  up  and 
down  the  garden  among  the  gay  flowers,  wrapped  in  his 
morning  gown,  which  is  likewise  covered  with  flowers, 
and  perhaps  wearing  on  his  head  a  little  velvet  cap.  Or 
you  will  find  him  sitting  by  the  chimney-corner  in  the 
great  chair,  smoking  his  ancestral  pipe,  with  shaggy  eye- 
brows,  and  eyes  like  bird's-nests  under  the  eaves  of  a 
house,  and  a  mouth  like  a  Nuremberg  nutcracker's.  The 
future  poet  climbs  upon  the  old  man's  knees.  His  geniua 


A  ROMANCE.  219 

is  not  recognized  yet.  He  is  thought  for  the  most 
part  a  dull  boy.  His  father  is  an  austere  man,  or  perhaps 
dead.  But  the  mother  is  still  there,  a  sickly,  saint-like 
Avoman,  with  knitting-work  ;  and  an  elder  sister,  who  has 
already  been  in  love,  and  wears  rings  on  her  fingers  : — 

'  Death's  heads  and  such  mementoes, 
Her  grandmother  and  worm-eaten  aunts  left  to  her, 
To  tell  her  what  her  beauty  must  arrive  at.' " 

"  But  this  is  not  the  case  with  the  life  of  Hoffmann,  it 
1  recollect  right." 

"No,  not  precisely.  Instead  of  the  grandfather,  we 
have  the  grandmother,  a  stately  dame,  who  has  long  since 
shaken  hands  with  the  vanities  of  life.  The  mother,  sep 
arated  from  her  husband,  is  sick  in  mind  and  body,  and 
flits  to  and  fro  like  a  shadow.  Then  there  is  an  affec 
tionate  maiden  aunt ;  and  an  uncle,  a  retired  judge,  the 
terror  of  little  boys, — the  Giant  Despair  of  this  Doubting 
Castle  in  Koenigsberg  ;  and  occasionally  the  benign  coun 
tenance  of  a  venerable  grand-uncle,  whom  Lamotte 
Fouque  called  a  hero  of  the  olden  time  in  morning  gown 
and  slippers,  looks  in  at  the  door  and  smiles.  In  the  up 
per  story  of  the  same  house  lived  a  poor  boy  with  his 
mother,  who  was  so  far  crazed  as  to  believe  herself  to  be 
the  Virgin  Mary,  and  her  son  the  Saviour  of  the  world. 

"Wild  fancies,  likewise,  were  to  sweep  through  the  brain 
of  that  child.  He  was  to  meet  Hoffmann  elsewhere  and  be 
his  friend  in  after  years,  though  as  yet  they  knew  nothing 
of  each  other.  This  was  Werner,  who  has  made  some 
noise  in  German  literature  as  the  author  of  many  wild 
Destiny-Dramas," 

"Hoffmann  died,  I  belicvo,  in  Berlin." 

"  Yes.  He  left  Koenigsberg  at  twenty  years  of  age,  and 


220  HYPERION, 

passed  the  next  eight  years  of  his  life  in  the  Prussian* 
Polish  provinces,  where  he  held  some  petty  office  under 
government,  and  took  to  himself  many  bad  habits 
and  a  Polish  wife.  After  this  he  was  Music-Director  at 
various  German  theatres,  and  led  a  wandering,  wretched 
life  for  ten  years.  He  then  went  to  Berlin  as  Clerk  of 
the  Exchange,  and  there  remained  till  his  death,  which 
took  place  sonic  seven  or  eight  years  afterward." 

' '  Did  you  ever  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  Berlin  during  his  lifetime,  and  saw  him  fre 
quently.  I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time.  It  was  at 
one  of  the  Esthetic  Teas  given  by  a  literary  lady  unter 
den  Linden,  where  the  lions  were  fed  with  convenient 
food,  from  tea  and  bread  and  butter  up  to  oysters  and 
Rhine-wine.  During  the  evening,  my  attention  was  ar 
rested  by  the  entrance  of  a  strange  little  figure,  with  a 
wild  head  of  brown  hair.  His  eyes  were  bright  gray  ;  and 
his  thin  lips  closely  pressed  together  with  an  expression  of 
not  unpleasing  irony.  This  strange-looking  personage 
began  to  bow  his  way  through  the  crowd,  with  quick, 
nervous,  hinge-like  motions,  much  resembling  those  of  a 
marionnette.  He  bad  a  hoarse  voice,  and  such  a  rapid 
utterance,  that,  although  I  understand  German  well 
enough  for  ordinary  purposes,  I  could  not  make  out  one 
half  he  said.  Erelong  he  had  seated  himself  at  the  piano 
forte,  and  was  improvising  such  wild,  sweet  fancies,  that 
the  music  of  one's  dreams  is  not  more  sweet  and  wild. 
Then  suddenly  some  painful  thought  seemed  to  pass  over 
his  mind,  as  if  he  imagined  that  he  was  there  to  amuse 
the  company.  He  rose  from  the  piano-forte,  and  seated 
himself  in  another  part  of  the  room  ;  where  he  began  to 
make  grimaces,  and  talk  loud  while  others  were  singing. 
Finally  he  disappeared  like  a  hobgoblin,  laughing,  *  Ho  J 


A  ROMANCE.  221 

ho  !  ho  ! '  I  asked  a  person  beside  mo  who  this  strange 
being  was.  '  That  is  Hoffmann/  was  the  answer.  '  The 
Devil ! '  said  I.  '  Yes,'  continued  my  informant,  '  and  if 
you  should  follow  him  now  you  would  sec  him  plunge 
into  an  obscure  and  unfrequented  wine-cellar,  and  there, 
amid  boon  companions,  with  wine  and  tobacco-smoke, 
and  quirks  and  quibbles,  and  quaint,  witty  sayings,  turn 
the  dim  night  into  glorious  day.'  * 

"  What  a  strange  being  ! " 

"  I  once  saw  him  at  one  of  his  night  carouses.  He  was 
sitting  in  his  glory  at  the  head  of  the  table  ;  not  stupidly 
drunk,  but  warmed  with  wine,  which  made  him  madly 
eloquent,  as  the  Devil's  Elixir  did  the  monk  Medardus. 
There,  in  the  full  tide  of  witty  discourse,  or,  if  silent,  his 
gray  hawk-eye  flashing  from  beneath  his  matted  hair,  and 
taking  note  of  all  that  was  grotesque  in  the  company 
round  him,  sat  this  unfortunate  genius  till  the  day  began 
to  dawn.  Then  he  found  his  way  homeward,  having, 
like  the  souls  of  the  envious  in  Purgatory,  his  eyelids 
sewed  together  with  iron  wire ; — though  his  was  from 
champagne  bottles.  At  such  hours  he  wrote  his  wild, 
fantastic  talcs.  To  his  excited  fancy  everything  assumed 
a  spectral  look.  The  shadows  of  familiar  things  about 
him  stalked  like  ghosts  through  the  haunted  chambers  of 
his  soul ;  and  the  old  portraits  on  the  walls  winked  at 
him,  and  seemed  stepping  down  from  their  frames  ;  till, 
aghast  at  the  spectral  throng  about  him,  he  would  call 
his  wife  from  her  bed,  to  sit  by  him  while  he  wrote." 

"  No  wonder  he  died  in  the  prime  of  life  ! " 

"  No.  The  only  wonder  is,  that  he  could  have  followed 
this  course  of  life  for  six  years.  I  am  astonished  that  it 
did  not  kill  him  sooner." 

"But  death  came  at  last  in  an  appalling  shape." 


222  1IYPER10X, 

"  Yes ;  his  forty-sixth  birthday  found  him  sitting  at 
homo  in  his  arm-chair,  with  his  friend,?  around  him. 
But  the  rare  old  Avine — -lie  always  drank  the  best — touched 
not  the  sick  man's  lips  that  night.  His  wonted  humor 
was  gone.  Of  all  his  '  jibes,  his  gambols,  his  songs,  his 
flashes  of  merriment,  that  were  wont  to  set  the  table  on  a 
roar,  not  one  now  to  mock  his  own  grinning ! — quite 
chap-fallen.'  The  conversation  was  of  death  and  the 
grave.  And  when  one  of  his  friends  said  that  life  was 
the  highest  good,  Hoffmann  interrupted  him,  exclaiming, 
with  a  startling  earnestness,  *  No,  no  !  Life,  life,  only 
life  !  on  any  condition  whatsoever  !'  Five  months  after 
this  he  had  ceased  to  suffer,  because  he  had  ceased  to 
live.  He  died  piecemeal.  His  feet  and  hands,  his  legs 
and  arms,  gradually,  and  in  succession,  became  motion 
less,  dead.  But  his  spirit  was  not  dead,  nor  motionless  ; 
and,  through  the  solitary  day  or  sleepless  night,  lying  in 
his  bed,  he  dictated  to  an  amanuensis  his  last  stories. 
Strange  stories,  indeed,  were  they  for  a  dying  man  to 
write  !  Yet  such  delight  did  he  take  in  dictating  them, 
that  he  said  to  his  friend  Hitzig,  that,  upon  the  whole, 
he  was  willing  to  give  up  forever  the  use  of  his  hands,  if 
he  could  but  preserve  the  power  of  writing  by  dictation. 
Sach  was  his  love  of  life, — cf  what  he  called  the  sweet 
habitude  of  being  ! " 

"Was  it  not  he,  who  in  his  last  hours  expressed  such  a 
longing  to  behold  the  green  fields  once  more,  and  ex 
claimed,  '  Heaven  !  it  is  already  summer,  and  I  have  not 
yet  seen  a  single  green  tree '  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  was  Hoffmann.  Soon  afterwards  he  died. 
The  closing  scene  was  striking.  He  gradually  lost  all 
sensation,  though  his  mind  remained  vigorous.  Feeling 
no  more  pain,  he  said  to  his  physician  :  '  It  will  soon  be 


A  ROMANCE.  823 

orer  now.  I  feel  no  more  pain.'  He  thought  himself 
well  again  ;  but  the  physician  knew  that  he  was  dying, 
and  said,  '  Yes,  it  will  soon  be  over  ! '  The  next  morn 
ing  he  called  his  wife  to  his  bedside,  and  begged  her  to 
fold  his  motionless  hands  together.  Then,  as  he  raised 
his  eyes  to  heaven,  she  heard  him  say,  'We  must, 
then,  think  of  God,  also!'  More  sorrowful  words 
than  these  have  seldom  fallen  from  the  lips  of  man. 
Shortly  afterwards  the  flame  of  life  glared  up  within 
him  ;  he  said  he  was  well  again  ;  that  in  the  evening  he 
should  go  on  with  the  story  he  was  writing  ;  and  wished 
that  the  last  sentence  might  be  read  over  to  him. 
Shortly  after  this  they  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and 
he  died." 

"  And  thus  passed  to  its  account  a  human  soul,  after 
much  self-inflicted  suffering.  Let  us  tread  lightly  upon 
the  poet's  ashes.  For  my  part,  I  confess  that  I  have  not 
the  heart  to  take  him  from  the  general  crowd  of  erring, 
sinful  men,  and  judge  him  harshly.  The  little  I  have 
seen  of  the  world,  and  know  of  the  history  of  mankind, 
teaches  me  to  look  upon  the  errors  of  others  in  sorrow, 
not  in  anger.  When  I  take  the  history  of  one  poor  heart 
that  has  sinned  and  suffered,  and  represent  to  myself  the 
struggles  and  temptations  it  has  passed, — the  brief  pulsa 
tions  of  joy,  the  feverish  inquietude  of  hope  and  fear, 
the  tears  of  regret,  the  feebleness  of  purpose,  the  pressure 
of  want,  the  desertion  of  friends,  the  scorn  of  a  world 
that  has  little  charity,  the  desolation  of  the  soul's  sanc 
tuary,  and  threatening  voices  within, — health  gone,  hap« 
piness  gone,  even  hope,  that  stays  longest  with  us  gone, — 
I  have  little  heart  for  aught  else  than  thankfulness  that  it 
-S  not  so  with  me,  and  would  fain  leave  the  erring  soul 
of  my  fellow-man  with  Him  from  whose  hands  it  came, 


224  HYPERION, 

'Even  as  a  little  girl, 
Weeping  and  laughing  in  her  childish  sport. ' " 

"  You  arc  right.  And  it  is  worth  a  student's  'while  to 
observe  calmly  how  tobacco,  wine,  and  midnight  did  their 
work  like  fiends  upon  the  delicate  frame  of  Hoffmann  ;  and 
no  less  thoroughly  upon  his  delicate  mind.  He  who 
drinks  beer  thinks  beer  ;  and  he  who  drinks  wine  thinks 
wine  ;  and  he  who  drinks  midnight  thinks  midnight. 
He  Avas  a  man  of  rare  intellect.  He  was  endowed  with 
racy  humor,  and  sarcastic  wit,  and  a  glorious  imagination. 
But  the  fire  of  his  genius  burned  not  peacefully  and  with 
a  steady  flame  upon  the  hearth  of  his  home.  It  was  a 
glaring  and  irregular  flame  ;  for  the  branches  that  he  fed 
it  with  were  not  branches  from  the  Tree  of  Life,  but  from 
another  tree  that  grew  in  Paradise,  and  they  were  wet 
with  the  unhealthy  dews  of  night,  and  more  unhealthy 
wine ;  and  thus,  amid  smoke  and  ashes,  the  fire  burned 
fitfully,  and  went  out  with  a  glare  which  leaves  the 
beholder  blind." 

"  This  fire  within  him  was  a  Meleager's  fire-brand ; 
and  when  it  burned  out,  he  died.  And,  as  you  say,  marks 
of  all  this  are  clearly  visible  in  Hoffmann's  writings. 
Indeed,  when  I  read  his  strange  fancies,  it  is  with  me  as 
when  in  the  summer  night  I  hear  the  rising  wind  among 
the  trees,  and  the  branches  bow,  and  beckon  with  their 
long  fingers,  and  voices  go  gibbering  and  mocking 
through  the  air.  A  feeling  of  awe  and  mysterious  dread 
comes  over  me.  I  wish  to  hear  the  sound  of  living  voice 
or  footstep  near  me, — to  see  a  friendly  and  familiar  face. 
In  truth,  if  it  be  late  at  night,  the  reader  as  well  as  the 
writer  of  these  unearthly  fancies  would  fain  have  a 
patient,  meek-eyed  wife,  with  her  knitting-work,  at  his 


A  ROMANCE. 

Berkley  smiled ;  but  Flemming  continued  without 
noticing  the  smile,  though  he  knew  what  was  passing  in 
the  mind  of  his  friend  : — 

"  The  life  and  writings  of  this  singular  being  interest 
me  in  a  high  degree.  Often  one  may  learn  more  from  a 
man's  errors  than,  from  his  virtues.  Moreover,  from  the 
common  sympathies  of  our  nature,  souls  that  have  strug 
gled  and  suffered  are  dear  to  me.  Willingly  do  I  recog 
nize  their  brotherhood.  Scars  upon  their  foreheads  do  not 
so  deform  them  that  they  cease  to  interest.  They  are  al 
ways  signs  of  struggle  ;  though,  alas  I  too  often,  likewise, 
of  defeat.  Seasons  of  unhealthy,  dreamy,  vague  delight 
are  followed  by  seasons  of  weariness  and  darkness.  "Where 
are  then  the  bright  fancies,  that,  amid  the  great  stillness 
of  the  night,  arise  like  stars  in  the  firmament  of  our 
gouls  ?  The  morning  dawns,  the  light  of  common  day 
shines  in  upon  us,  and  the  heavens  are  without  a  star  ! 
From  the  lives  of  such  men  we  learn  that  mere  pleasant 
sensations  are  not  happiness ;  that  sensual  pleasures  are 
to  bo  drunk  sparingly,  and,  as  it  were,  from  the  palm  of 
the  hand  ;  and  that  those  who  bow  dowrn  upon  their  knees 
to  drink  of  these  bright  streams  that  water  life,  are  not 
chosen  of  God  either  to  overthrow  or  to  overcome  1 " 

"  I  think  you  are  very  lenient  in  your  judgment.  This 
is  not  the  usual  defect  of  critics.  Like  Shakespeare's 
samphire-gatherer,  they  have  a  dreadful  trade  !  and,  to 
make  the  simile  complete,  they  ought  to  hang  for  it ! " 

"  Methinks  it  would  be  hard  to  hang  a  man  for  the  sake 
of  a  simile.  But  which  of  Hoffmann's  works  is  it  that  you 
have  in  your  hand  ?  " 

"  His  Phantasy-Pieces  in  Callot's  manner.  Who  was  thla 
Callot  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  Lorraine  painter,  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
15 


$2G  HYPERION. 

tury,  celebrated  for  Jiia  wild  and  grotesque  conceptions, 
These  sketches  of  Hoffmann  are  imitations  of  his  style. 
They  are  full  of  humor,  poetry,  and  brilliant  imagina 
tion." 

"And  which  of  them  el:all  I  read  to  you  ?  The  Hitter 
Gliick  ;  or  the  Musical  Sufferings  of  John  Kreisler  ;  or 
that  exquisite  story  of  the  Golden  Jar,  wherein  is  depicted 
the  life  of  Poesy  in  this  commonplace  world  of  ours  ?  " 

"  Read  the  shortest.  Read  Kreisler.  That  will  amuse 
me.  It  is  a  picture  of  hi3  own  sufferings  at  the  ^Esthetic 
Teas  in  Berlin,  supposed  to  be  written  in  pencil  on  the 
blank  leaves  of  a  music-book." 

Thereupon  Berkley  leaned  back  in  hia  easy-chair, 
read  as  follow*. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MUSICAL  SUFFERINGS  OF    JOHN   KEEISLEB. 

"  npHEY  are  all  gone  !  I  might  have  known  it  by  the 
-L  whispering,  shuffling,  coughing,  buzzing  through 
all  the  notes  of  the  gamut.  It  was  a  true  swarm  of  bees, 
leaving  the  old  hive.  Gottlieb  has  lighted  fresh  candles 
for  me,  and  placed  a  bottle  of  Burgundy  on  the  piano 
forte.  I  can  play  no  more,  I  am  perfectly  exhausted. 
My  glorious  old  friend  here  on  the  music-stand  is  to  blame 
for  that.  Again  he  has  borne  me  away  through  the  air, 
as  Mephistopheles  did  Faust,  and  so  high,  that  I  took  not 
the  slightest  notice  of  the  little  men  under  me,  though  I 
dare  say  they  made  noise  enough.  A  rascally,  worthless, 
wasted  evening  !  But  now  I  am  well  and  merry  !  How 
ever,  while  I  was  playing,  I  took  out  my  pencil,  and  on 
page  sixty-three,  under  the  last  staff,  noted  down  a  couple 
of  good  flourishes  in  cipher  with  my  right  hand,  while  the 
left  was  straggling  tiway  in  the  torrent  of  sweet  sounds. 
Upon  the  blank  page  at  the  end  I  go  on  writing.  I  leave 
all  ciphers  and  sweet  sounds,  and  with  true  delight,  like 
a  sick  man  restored  to  health,  who  can  never  stop  relating 
\vliut  he  has  suffered,  I  note  down  here  circumstantially 
the  dire  agonies  of  th:s  evening's  tea-party.  And  not  for 
myself  alone,  but  likewise  for  all  those  who  from  time  to 
time  may  amuse  and  edify  themselves  with  my  copy  of 
John  Sebastian  Bach's  Variations  for  the  Piano-forte, 
published  by  NagcU  in  Zurich,  and  who  find  my  mark? 

227 


828  HYPERION, 

at  the  end  of  the  thirtieth  variation,  and  led  on  by  the 
great  Latin  Verte  (I  will  write  it  down  the  moment  I  get 
through  this  doleful  statement  of  grievances,)  turn  over 
the  leaf  and  read. 

"  They  will  at  once  see  the  connection.  They  know 
the  Geheimerath  Eodelein's  house  is  a  charming  house  to 
visit  in,  and  that  he  has  two  daughters,  of  whom  the 
whole  fashionable  world  proclaims  with  enthusiasm  that 
they  dance  like  goddesses,  speak  French  like  angels,  and 
play  and  sing  and  draw  like  the  Muses.  The  Geheime 
rath  Eodelein  is  a  rich  man.  At  his  quarterly  dinners  he 
sends  up  the  most  delicious  wines  and  richest  dishes. 
All  is  established  on  a  footing  of  the  greatest  elegance  ; 
and  whoever  at  his  tea-parties  does  not  amuse  himself 
heavenly,  has  no  ton,  no  esprit,  and  particularly  no  taste 
for  the  fine  arts.  It  is  with  an  eye  to  these,  that,  with 
the  tea,  punch,  wine,  ice  creams,  etc.,  a  little  music  is  al 
ways  served  up,  which,  like  the  other  refreshments,  is 
very  quietly  swallowed  by  the  fashionable  world. 

"  The  arrangements  are  as  follows.  After  every  guest  has 
had  time  enough  to  drink  as  many  cups  of  tea  as  he  may 
wish,  and  punch  and  ices  have  been  handed  round  twice, 
the  servants  Avheel  out  the  card-tables  for  the  elder  and 
more  solid  part  of  the  company,  who  had  rather  play 
cards  than  any  musical  instrument ;  and,  in  fact,  this 
kiiiu.  of  playing  does  not  make  such  a  useless  noise  as 
others,  and  you  hear  only  the  clink  of  money. 

*•'  This  is  a  hint  for  the  younger  part  of  the  company 
to  pounce  upon  the  Misses  Eodelein.  A  great  tumult 
ensues ;  in  the  midst  of  which  you  can  distinguish  these 
words  : — 

' ' '  Schones  Frdulcin  !  do  not  refuse  us  the  gratification 
of  your  heavenly  talent  !  0,  sing  something  !  that's  a 


A  ROMANCE.  229 

good  dear ! — impossible, — bad  cold, — the  last  ball !  have 
not  practised  anything. — 0,  do,  do,  we  beg  of  you,'  etc. 

"Meanwhile  Gottlieb  has  opened  the  piano-forte,  and 
placed  the  well-known  music-book  on  the  stand ;  and 
from  the  card- table  cries  the  respectable  mamma, — 

"  '  Chantcz  done,  mes  enfants! ' 

"  That  is  the  cue  of  my  part.  I  place  myself  at  the 
piano-forte,  and  the  Rodeleins  are  led  up  to  the  instru 
ment  in  triumph. 

"And  now  another  difficulty  arises.  Neither  wishes  to 
sing  first. 

"  '  You  know,  dear  Nanette,  how  d  "eadfully  hoarse  I 
Am.' 

" '  Why,  my  dear  Marie,  I  am  as  hoirse  as  you  are.' 

"  '  I  sing  so  badly  !  — ' 

"  ( 0  my  dear  child ;  do  begin  ! ' 

"  My  suggestion,  (I  always  make  the  same  !)  that  they 
should  both  begin  together  with  a  duet,  is  loudly 
applauded ; — the  music-book  is  thumbed  over,  and  the 
leaf,  carefully  folded  down,  is  at  length  found,  and  away 
we  go  with  Dolce  delV  anima,  etc. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  the  talent  of  the  Misses  Eodelein  is 
not  the  smallest.  I  have  been  an  instructor  here  only  five 
years,  and  little  short  of  two  years  in  the  Rodelein  family. 
In  this  short  time,  Friiulein  Nanette  has  made  such  prog 
ress,  that  a  tune,  which  she  has  heard  at  the  thea 
tre  only  ten  times,  and  has  played  on  the  piano-forte,  at 
farthest,  ten  times  more,  she  will  sing  right  off,  so  that 
you  know  in  a  moment  what  it  is.  Fraulein  Marie  catches 
it  at  the  eighth  time  ;  and  if  she  is  sometimes  a  quarter 
of  a  note  lower  than  the  piano-forte,  after  all  it  is  very 
tolerable,  considering  her  pretty  little  doll-face,  and  very 
passable  rosy  lips. 


aso  HTPERION; 

<e  After  the  duet,  a  universal  chorus  of  applause  !  And 
now  ariettas  and  duettinos  succeed  each  other,  and 
right  merrily  I  hammer  away  at  the  thousand-timea 
repeated  accompaniments.  During  the  singing,  the 
Finanzrathin  Eberstein,  by  coughing  and  humming,  has 
given  us  to  understand  that  she  also  sings.  Friiulein 
Nanette  says  : — 

" e  But,  my  dear  Finanzrathin,  now  you  must  let  us 
hear  your  exquisite  voice.' 

*'  A  new  tumult  arises.  She  has  a  bad  cold  in  her  head, 
— she  does  not  know  anything  by  heart  !  Gottlieb  brings 
straightway  two  armf  uls  of  music-books ;  and  the  leaves 
are  turned  over  again  and  again.  First  she  thinks  she 
will  sing  Der  Holle  Rache,  etc.,  then  Hebe  sich,  etc.,  then 
Ach,  Icli  liebte,  etc.  In  this  embarrassment,  I  propose, 
Ein  Veilchen  auf  der  Wiese,  etc.  But  she  is  for  the  heroic 
style  ;  she  wants  to  make  a  display,  and  finally  selects 
the  aria  in  Constantia. 

"  0,  scream,  squeak,  mew,  gurgle,  groan,  agonize, 
quiver,  quaver,  just  as  much  as  you  please,  Madam,  I 
have  my  foot  on  the  fortissimo  pedal,  and  thunder  myself 
deaf !  0  Satan,  Satan  !  which  of  thy  goblins  damned 
has  got  into  this  throat,  pinching,  and  kicking,  and  cuff 
ing  the  tones  about  so  !  Four  strings  have  snapped 
already,  and  one  hammer  is  lamed  for  life.  My  ears  ring 
again, — my  head  hums, — my  nerves  tremble  !  Have  all 
the  harsh  notes  from  the  cracked  trumpet  of  a  strolling 
player  been  imprisoned  in  this  little  throat !  (But  this 
excites  me, — I  must  drink  a  glass  of  Burgundy. ) 

"  The  applause  was  unbounded  ;  and  some  one  observed, 
that  the  Finanzrathin  and  Mozart  had  put  me  quite  into 
a  blaze.  I  smiled  with  downcast  eyes,  very  stupidly.  I 
could  but  acknowledge  it.  And  now  all  talents,  which 


A  ROMANCE.  231 

hitherto  had  bloomed  unseen,  were  in  motion,  wildly  flit 
ting  to  and  fro.  They  were  bent  upon  a  surfeit  of  music  ; 
tuttis,  finales,  choruses,  must  be  performed.  The  Canoni- 
cus  Kratzer  sings,  you  know,  a  heavenly  bass,  as  was 
observed  by  the  gentleman  yonder,  with  the  head  of  Titus 
Andronicus,  who  modestly  remarked  also,  that  he  him 
self  was  properly  only  a  second-rate  tenor  ;  but,  though 
he  said  it  who  should  not  say  it,  he  was  nevertheless 
member  of  several  academies  of  music.  Forthwith  prep 
arations  are  made  for  the  first  chorus  in  the  opera  of 
Titus.  It  went  off  gloriously.  The  Canonicus,  standing 
close  behind  me,  thundered  out  the  bass  over  my  head,  as 
if  he  were  singing  with  bass-drums  and  trumpet  obligate 
in  a  cathedral.  He  struck  the  notes  gloriously ;  but  in 
his  hurry  he  got  the  tempo  about  twice  too  slow.  How 
ever,  he  was  true  to  himself  at  least  in  this,  that  through 
the  whole  piece  he  dragged  along  just  half  a  beat  behind 
the  rest.  The  others  showed  a  most  decided  penchant  for 
the  ancient  Greek  music,  which,  as  is  well  known,  having 
nothing  to  do  with  harmony,  ran  on  in  unison  or  mono 
tone.  They  all  sang  treble,  with  slight  variations,  caused 
by  accidental  rising  or  falling  of  the  voice,  say  some 
quarter  of  a  note. 

"This  somewhat  noisy  affair  produced  a  universal 
tragic  state  of  feeling,  namely  a  kind  of  terror,  even  at 
the  card-tables,  which  for  the  moment  could  no  longer, 
as  before,  chime  in  melodramatically,  by  weaving  into 
the  music  sundry  exclamations  ;  as,  for  instance  : — 

"  '  Oh  !  I  loved, — eight  and  forty, — was  so  happy, — 
I  pass, — then  I  knew  not, — whist, — pangs  of  love, — fol 
low  suit,'  etc. — It  has  a  very  pretty  effect.  (I  fill  my 
glass. ) 

"  That  was  the  highest  point  of  the  musical  exhibition 


232  HYPERION, 

this  evening.  'Now  it  is  all  over,'  thought  I  to  myself, 
I  shut  the  book,  and  got  up  from  the  piano-forte.  But 
the  Baron,  my  ancient  tenor,  came  up  to  me  and  said  : — 

"  '  My  dear  Hcrr  Capellmeister,  they  say  you  play  the 
most  exquisite  voluntaries  !  Now  do  play  us  one  ;  only 
a  short  one,  I  entreat  you  ! ' 

"  I  answered  very  dryly,  that  to-day  my  fantasies  had 
all  gone  a  wool-gathering  ;  and  while  we  are  talking  about 
it,  a  devil,  in  the  shape  of  a  dandy,  with  two  waistcoats, 
had  smelt  out  Bach's  Variations,  which  were  lying  under 
my  hat  in  the  next  room.  lie  thinks  they  are  merely 
little  variations,  such  as  Nel  cor  mio  non  piu  sento,  or  Alt, 
vous  dirai-je,  maman,  etc.,  and  insists  upon  it  that  I 
sliall  play  them.  I  try  to  excuse  myself,  but  they  all  at 
tack  me.  So  then,  ( Listen,  and  burst  with  ennui,'  think 
I  to  myself, — and  begin  to  work  away. 

"When  I  had  got  to  variation  number  three,  several 
ladies  departed,  followed  by  the  gentleman  with  the  Titus- 
Andronicus  head.  The  Eodeleins,  as  their  teacher  was 
playing,  stood  it  out,  though  not  without  difficulty,  to 
number  twelve.  Number  fifteen  made  the  man  with  two 
waistcoats  take  to  his  heels.  Out  of  most  excessive  polite 
ness,  the  Baron  stayed  till  number  thirty,  and  drank  up  all 
the  punch  which  Gottlieb  placed  on  the  piano-forte  for  me. 

"I  should  have  brought  all  to  a  happy  conclusion,  but, 
alas  !  this  number  thirty — the  theme — tore  me  irresistibly 
away.  Suddenly  the  quarto  leaves  spread  out  to  a  gigan 
tic  folio,  on  which  a  thousand  imitations  and  develop 
ments  of  the  theme  stood  written,  and  I  could  not  choose 
but  play  them.  The  notes  became  alive,  and  glimmered 
and  hopped  all  round  about  me, — an  electric  fire  streamed 
through  the  tips  of  my  fingers  into  the  keys, — the  spirit 
from  which  it  gushed  forth  spread  his  broad  wings  over 


A  ROMANCE.  233 

my  soul,  the  whole  room  was  filled  with  a  thick  mist,  in 
which  the  candles  burned  dim, — and  through  which 
peered  forth  now  a  nose,  and  anon  a  pair  of  eyes,  and 
then  suddenly  vanished  away  again.  And  thus  it  camo 
to  pass,  that  I  was  left  alone  with  my  Sebastian  Bach,  by 
Gottlieb  attended,  as  by  a  familiar  spirit.  (Your  good 
health,  Sir.) 

"  Is  an  honest  musician  to  be  tormented  with  music,  as 
I  have  been  to-day,  and  am  so  often  tormented  ?  Verily, 
no  art  is  so  damnably  abused  as  this  same  glorious,  holy 
MrJisica,  who,  in  her  delicate  being,  is  so  easily  desecrated. 
Have  you  real  talent, — real  feeling  for  art  ?  Then  study 
music, — do  something  worthy  of  the  art, — and  dedicate 
your  whole  soul  to  the  beloved  saint.  If  without  this 
you  have  a  fancy  for  quavers  and  demi-semi-quavers,  prac 
tise  for  yourself  and  by  yourself,  and  torment  not  there 
with  the  Capellmeister  Kreisler  and  others. 

"  Well,  now  I  might  go  home,  and  put  the  finishing 
touch  to  my  sonata  for  the  piano-forte  ;  but  it  is  not  yet 
eleven  o'clock,  and,  withal,  a  beautiful  summer  night.  I 
will  lay  any  wager,  that  at  my  neighbor's,  the  Oberjiiger- 
meister,  the  young  ladies  are  sitting  at  the  window,  scream 
ing  down  into  the  street,  for  the  twentieth  time,  with, 
harsh,  sharp,  piercing  voices,  '  When  thine  eye  is  beam 
ing,  love,' — but  only  the  first  stanza,  over  and  over  again. 
Obliquely  across  the  way,  some  one  is  murdering  the  flute, 
and  has,  moreover,  lungs  like  Rameau's  nephew  ;  and,  in 
notes  of  'linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,'  his  neighbor 
is  trying  acoustic  experiments  on  the  French  horn.  The 
numerous  dogs  of  the  neighborhood  are  growing  unquiet, 
and  my  landlord's  cat,  inspired  by  that  sweet  duet,  is 
making,  by  my  window  (for,  of  course,- my  musi co-poetic 
laboratory  is  an  attic),  certain  tender  confessions, — up- 


234  HYPERION. 

ward  through  the  whole  chromatic  scale,  soft  complain 
ing.,  to  the  neighbor's  tabby,  with  whom  he  has  been  in 
love  since  March  last !  Till  this  is  all  fairly  over,  I  think 
I  will  sit  quietly  here.  Besides,  there  is  still  blank  paper 
and  Burgundy  left,  of  which  I  forthwith  take  a  sip. 

"  There  is,  as  I  have  heard,  an  ancient  law,  forbidding 
those  who  follow  any  noisy  handicraft  from  living  near 
literary  men.  Should  not  then  musical  composers,  poor, 
and  hard  beset,  and  who,  moreover,  are  forced  to  coin 
their  inspiration  into  gold  to  spin  out  the  thread  of  life 
withal,  be  allowed  to  apply  this  law  to  themselves,  and 
banish  out  of  the  neighborhood  all  ballad-singers  and 
bagpipers  ?  What  would  a  painter  say,  while  transferring 
to  his  canvas  a  form  of  ideal  beauty,  if  you  should  hold 
up  before  him  all  manner  of  wild  faces  and  ugly  masks  ? 
He  might  shut  his  eyes,  and  in  this  way,  at  least,  quietly 
follow  out  the  images  of  fancy.  Cotton,  in  one's  ears,  is 
of  no  use  ;  one  still  hears  the  dreadful  massacre.  And 
then  the  idea, — the  bare  idea,  'Now  they  are  going  to 
sing, — now  the  horn  strikes  up,' — is  enough  to  send  ona'a 
sublimest  thoughts  to  the  very  Devil." 


CHAPTER    V. 

SAINT   GILGEN. 

IT  was  a  bright  Sunday  morning  when  Flemming  and! 
Berkley  left  behind  them  the  cloud-capped  hills  of 
Salzburg,  and  journeyed  eastward  towards  the  lakes.  The 
landscape  around  them  was  one  to  attune  their  souls  to 
holy  musings.  Field,  forest,  hill  and  vale,  fresh  air, 
and  the  perfume  of  clover-fields  and  new-mown  hay, 
birds  singing,  and  the  sound  of  village  bells,  and  the 
moving  breeze  among  the  branches, — no  laborers  in  the 
fields,  but  peasants  on  their  way  to  church,  coming  across 
the  green  pastures,  with  roses  in  their  hats, — the  beauty 
and  quiet  of  the  holy  day  of  rest, — all,  all  in  earth  and 
air,  breathed  upon  the  soul  like  a  benediction. 

They  stopped  to  change  horses  at  Hof,  a  handful  of 
houses  on  the  brow  of  a  breezy  hill,  the  church  and  inn 
standing  opposite  to  each  other,  and  nothing  between 
them  but  the  dusty  road,  and  the  churchyard,  with  its 
iron  crosses,  and  the  fluttering  tinsel  of  the  funeral  gar- 
hinds.  In  the  churchyard,  and  at  the  tavern-door,  were 
groups  of  peasants,  waiting  for  divine  service  to  begin. 
They  were  clothed  in  their  holiday  dresses.  The  men 
wore  breeches  and  long  boots,  and  frock-coats  with  largo 
metal  buttons  ;  the  women,  straw  hats,  and  gay  calico 
gowns  with  short  waists  and  scant  folds.  They  were 
adorned  with  a  profusion  of  great  trumpery  ornaments, 
and  reminded  Flemming  of  the  Indians  in  the  frontier 

235 


236  HYPERION, 

villages  of  America.  Near  the  churchyard-gate  was  a 
booth,  filled  with  flaunting  calicoes  ;  and  opposite  sat  an 
old  woman  behind  a  table,  which  was  loaded  with  gingcr- 
brciid.  She  had  a  roulette  at  her  elbow,  where  the  peas 
ants  risked  a  krcutzcr  for  a  cake.  On  other  tables,  cases 
of  knives,  scythes,  reaping-hooks,  and  other  implements 
of  husbandry  were  offered  for  sale. 

The-  travellers  continued  their  journey,  without  stop 
ping  to  hear  mass.  In  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  they 
came  suddenly  in  sight  of  the  beautiful  lake  of  Saint 
Wolfgang,  lying  deep  beneath  them  in  the  valley.  On 
its  shore,  under  them,  sat  the  white  village  of  Saint  Gil- 
gen,  like  a  swan  upon  its  reedy  nest.  They  seemed  to 
have  taken  it  unawares,  and  as  it  were  clapped  their  hands 
upon  it  in  its  sleep,  and  almost  expected  to  see  it  spread 
its  broad  snow-white  wings  and  fly  away.  The  whole 
scene  was  one  of  surpassing  beauty. 

They  drove  leisurely  down  the  steep  hill,  and  stopped 
at  the  village  inn.  Before  the  door  was  a  magnificent 
broad-armed  tree,  with  benches  and  tables  beneath  ita 
shadow.  On  the  front  of  the  house  was  written  in  large 
letters,  "  Post-Tavern  by  Franz  Schondorfer  "  ;  and  over 
this  was  a  large  sun-dial,  and  a  half-effaced  painting  of  a 
bear-hunt,  covering  the  whole  side  of  the  house,  and 
mostly  red.  Just  as  they  drove  up,  a  procession  of  priests 
with  banners,  and  peasants  with  their  hats  in  their  hands, 
passed  by  towards  the  church.  They  were  singing  a  sol 
emn  psalm.  At  the  same  moment,  a  smart  servant-girl, 
with  a  black  straw  hat  set  coquettishly  on  her  flaxen  hair, 
and  a  large  silver  spoon  stuck  in  her  girdle,  came  out  of 
the  inn,  and  asked  Flemming  what  he  would  please  to 
order  for  breakfast. 

Breakfast  was  soon  ready,  and  was  served  at  the  head 


A  noMANufr.  •  237 

of  the  stairs,  on  an  old-fashioned  oakea  table  in  the  great 
luill.  into  which  the  chambers  opened.  Berkley  ordered 
at  the  same  time  a  tub  of  cold  water,  in  which  ho  seated 
himself,  with  his  coat  on,  and  a  bed-quilt  thrown  round 
his  knees.  Thus  he  sat  for  an  hour  ;  ate  his  breakfast, 
and  smoked  a  pipe,  and  laughed  a  good  deal.  He  then 
went  to  bed  and  slept  till  dinner-time.  Meanwhile  Flem- 
ming  sat  in  his  chamber  and  read.  It  was  a  large  room 
in  the  front  of  the  house,  looking  upon  the  village  and 
the  lake.  The  windows  were  latticed,  with  small  panes, 
and  the  window-sills  filled  with  fragrant  flowers. 

At  length  the  heat  of  the  noon  was  over.  Day,  like  a 
weary  pilgrim,  had  reached  the  western  gate  of  heaven, 
and  Evening  stooped  down  to  unloose  the  latchcts  of  his 
sandal-shoon.  Flemming  and  Berkley  sallied  forth  to 
ramble  by  the  borders  of  the  lake.  Down  the  cool  green 
glades  and  alleys,  beneath  the  illuminated  leaves  of  the 
forest,  over  the  rising  grounds  in  the  glimmering  fretwork 
of  sunshine  and  leaf-shadow, — an  exhilarating  walk  !  The 
cool  evening  air  by  the  lake  was  like  a  bath.  They  drank 
the  freshness  of  the  hour  in  thirsty  draughts,  and  their 
breasts  heaved  rejoicing  and  revived,  after  the  feverish, 
long  confinement  of  the  sultry  summer  day.  And  there, 
too,  lay  the  lake,  so  beautiful  and  still  !  Did  it  not  re 
call,  think  ye,  the  lake  of  Thun  ? 

On  their  return  homeward,  they  passed  near  the  village 
churchyard. 

"  Let  us  go  in  and  see  how  the  dead  rest,"  said  Flem- 
ming,  as  they  passed  beneath  the  belfry  of  the  church  ; 
and  they  went  in,  and  lingered  among  the  tombs  and  the 
evening  shadows. 

How  peaceful  is  the  dwelling-place  of  those  who  inhabit 
the  green  hamlets  and  populous  cities  of  the  dead  !  They 


238  HYPERION, 

need  no  antidote  for  care, — no  armor  against  fate.  No 
morning  sun  shines  in  at  the  closed  windows  and  awakens 
them,  nor  shall  until  the  last  great  da}-.  At  most,  a 
straggling  sunbeam  creeps  in  through  the  crumbling  wall 
of  an  old,  neglected  tomb, — a  strange  visitor,  that  stays 
not  long.  And  there  they  all  sleep,  the  holy  ones,  with 
their  arms  crossed  upon  their  breasts,  or  lying  motionless 
by  their  sides, — not  carved  in  marble  by  the  hand  of  man, 
but  formed  in  dust  by  the  hand  of  God.  God's  peace  be 
with  them  !  No  one  comes  to  them  now,  to  hold  them 
by  the  hand,  and  with  delicate  fingers  to  smooth  their 
hair.  They  heed  no  more  the  blandishments  of  earthly 
friendship.  They  need  us  not,  however  much  we  may 
need  them.  And  yet  they  silently  await  our  coming. 

Beautiful  is  that  season  of  life,  when  we  can  say,  in  the 
language  of  Scripture,  "  Thou  hast  the  dew  of  thy  youth." 
But  of  these  flowers  Death  gathers  many.  He  places  them 
upon  his  bosom,  and  he  is  transformed  into  something 
less  terrific  than  before.  We  learn  to  gaze  and  shudder 
not ;  for  he  carries  in  his  arms  the  sweet  blossoms  of  our 
earthly  hopes.  We  shall  see  them  all  again,  blooming  in 
a  happier  land. 

Yes,  Death  brings  us  again  to  our  friends.  They  are 
waiting  for  us,  and  we  shall  not  live  long.  They  have 
gone  before  us,  and  are  like  the  angels  in  heaven.  They 
stand  upon  the  borders  of  the  grave  to  welcome  us,  with 
the  countenance  of  affection  which  they  wore  on  earth  ; 
yet  more  lovely,  more  radiant,  more  spiritual !  He  spake 
well  who  said  that  graves  are  the  footprints  of  angels  J 

Death  has  taken  thee,  too,  and  thou  hast  the  dew  of 
thy  youth.  He  has  placed  thee  upon  his  bosom,  and  his 
stern  countenance  wears  a  smile.  The  far  country,  to 
ward  which  we  journey,  seems  nearer  to  us,  and  the  way 


A  ROMANCE.  239 

less  dark  ;  for  thou  hast  gone  before,  passing  so  quietly 
to  thy  rest,  that  day  itself  dies  not  more  calmly  ! 

It  was  in  an  hour  of  blessed  communion  with  the  souls 
of  the  departed,  that  the  sweet  poet  Henry  Vaughan  wrote 
those  few  lines  which  have  made  death  lovely,  and  his 
own  name  immortal ! 

"  They  are  all  gone  into  a  world  of  light, 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ! 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 
And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

"It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  the  hill  is  dressed 
After  the  sun's  remove. 

"  I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days, 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmerings  and  decays. 

"O  holy  hope,  and  high  humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 

These  are  your  walks,  and  ye  have  showed  them  ma, 
To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

"  Dear,  beauteous  Death  !  the  jewel  of  the  just ! 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ! 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

"He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know, 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  field  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

**  And  yet  as  angels,  in  some  brighter  dreams, 

Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 
And  into  glory  peep." 


240  IITPERIOfl. 

Such  were  Flemming's  thoughts,  as  he  stood  among 
the  tombs  at  evening  in  the  churchyard  of  Saint  Gilgen. 
A  holy  calm  stole  over  him.  The  fever  of  his  heart  was 
allayed.  He  had  a  moment's  rest  from  pain ;  and  went 
back  to  his  chamber  in  peace.  Whence  came  this  holy 
calm,  this  long-desired  tranquillity  ?  He  knew  not ;  yet 
the  place  seemed  consecrated.  He  resolved  to  linger 
there  beside  the  lake,  which  was  a  Pool  of  Bethesda  for 
him  ;  and  let  Berkley  go  on  alone  to  the  baths  of  Ischel. 
He  would  wait  for  him  there  in  the  solitude  of  Saint  Gil- 
gen.  Long  after  they  had  parted  for  the  night,  he  sat  in 
his  chamber,  and  thought  of  what  he  had  suffered,  and 
enjoyed  the  silence  within  and  without.  Hour  after 
hour  slipped  by  unheeded,  as  he  sat  lost  in  his  reverie. 
At  length,  his  candle  sank  in  its  socket,  gave  one  nicker 
ing  gleam,  and  expired  with  a  sob.  This  aroused  him. 

He  went  to  the  window,  and  peered  out  into  the  dark 
night.  It  was  very  late.  Twice  already  since  midnight 
had  the  great  pulpit-orator  Time,  like  a  preacher  in  the 
days  of  the  Puritans,  turned  the  hour-glass  on  his  high 
pulpit,  the  church-belfry,  and  still  went  on  with  his  ser 
mon,  thundering  downward  to  the  congregation  in  the 
churchyard  and  in  the  village.  But  they  heard  him  not. 
They  were  all  asleep  in  their  narrow  pews,  namely,  in 
their  beds  and  in  their  graves.  Soon  afterward  the  cock 
crew ;  and  the  cloudy  heaven,  like  the  Apostle  who  de 
nied  his  Lord,  wept  bitterly. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SAINT  WOLFGANG. 

morning  is  lovely  beyond  expression.  The  heat  of 
--  the  sun  is  great ;  but  a  gentle  wind  cools  the  air. 
Birds  never  sang  more  loud  and  clear.  The  flowers,  too, 
on  the  window-sill,  and  on  the  table,  rose,  geranium,  and 
the  delicate  crimson  cactus,  are  all  so  beautiful,  that  we 
think  the  German  poet  right,  when  he  calls  the  flowers 
"stars  in  the  firmament  of  the  earth."  Out  of  doors  all 
is  quiet.  Opposite  the  window  stands  the  village  school- 
house.  There  are  two  parasite  trees,  with  their  outspread 
branches  nailed  against  the  white  walls  like  the  wings  of 
culprit  kites.  There  the  rods  grow.  Under  them,  on  a 
bench  at  the  door,  sit  school-girls ;  and  barefoot  urchins 
in  breeches  are  spelling  out  their  lessons.  The  clock 
strikes  twelve,  and  one  by  one  they  disappear,  and 
go  into  the  hive,  like  bees  at  the  sound  of  a  brass  pan. 
At  the  door  of  the  next  house  sits  a  poor  woman  knitting 
in  the  shade ;  and  in  front  of  her  is  an  aqueduct,  pour 
ing  its  cool,  clear  water  into  a  rough  wooden  trougli.  A 
travelling-carriage,  without  horses,  stands  at  the  inn- 
door,  and  a  postilion  in  red  jacket  is  talking  with  a  black 
smith,  who  wears  blue  woollen  stockings,  and  a  leather 
apron.  Beyond  is  a  stable,  and  still  farther  a  cluster  of 
houses  and  the  village  church.  They  are  repairing  the 
belfry  and  the  bulbous  steeple.  A  little  farther,  over  the 
roofs  of  the  houses,  you  can  see  Saint  Wolfgang's  Lake. 
16  241 


242  HYPERION, 

Water  so  bright  and  beautiful  hardly  flows  elsewhere. 
Green  and  blue  and  silver-white  run  into  each  other, 
with  almost  imperceptible  change,  like  the  streaks  on  the 
side  of  a  mackerel.  And  above  are  the  pinnacles  of  the 
mountains ;  some  bald,  and  rocky,  and  cone-shaped,  and 
others  bold,  and  broad,  and  dark  with  pines. 

Such  was  the  scene  which  Paul  Flemming  beheld  from 
his  window  a  few  mornings  after  Berkley's  departure. 
The  quiet  of  the  place  had  soothed  him.  He  had  become 
more  calm.  His  heart  complained  less  loudly  in  the  holy 
village  silence,  as  we  are  wont  to  lower  our  yoices  when 
those  around  us  speak  in  whispers.  He  began  to  feel  at 
times  an  interest  in  the  lowly  things  around  him.  The 
face  of  the  landscape  pleased  him,  but  more  than  this  the 
face  of  the  poor  woman,  who  sat  knitting  in  the  shade. 
It  was  a  pale,  meek  countenance,  with  more  delicacy  in 
its  features  than  is  usual  among  peasantry.  It  wore  also 
an  expression  of  patient  suffering.  As  he  was  looking  at 
her,  a  deformed  child  came  out  of  the  door  and  hung 
upon  her  knees.  She  caressed  him  affectionately.  It 
was  her  child,  in  whom  she  beheld  her  own  fair  features 
distorted  and  hardly  to  be  recognized,  as  one  sometimes 
sees  one's  face  reflected  from  the  bowl  of  a  spoon. 

The  child's  deformity  and  the  mother's  tenderness 
interested  the  feelings  of  Flemming.  The  landlady  told 
him  something  of  the  poor  woman's  history.  She  w;ia 
the  widow  of  a  blacksmith,  who  had  died  soon  after  their 
marriage.  But  she  survived  to  become  a  mother,  as,  in 
oaks,  immediately  after  fecundation,  the  male  flower 
fades  and  falls,  while  the  female  continues  and  ripens 
into  perfect  fruit.  Alas  !  her  child  was  deformed.  Yet 
she  looked  upon  him  with  eyes  of  maternal  fondness  and 
pity,  loving  him  still  more  for  his  deformity.  And  in  her 


343 

heart  she  said,  as  the  Mexicans  say  to  their  new-born  off 
spring, — "  Child,  thou  art  come  into  the  world  to  suffer. 
Endure,  and  hold  thy  peace."  Though  poor,  she  was  not 
entirely  destitute  ;  for  her  husband  had  left  her,  besides 
the  deformed  child,  a  life  estate  in  a  tomb  in  the  church 
yard  of  Saint  Gilgen.  During  the  week  she  labored  for 
other  people,  and  on  Sundays  for  herself,  by  going  to 
church  and  reading  the  Bible.  On  one  of  the  blank 
leaves  she  had  recorded  the  day  of  her  birth,  and  that  of 
her  child's,  likewise  her  marriage  and  her  husband's  death. 
Thus  she  lived,  poor,  patient,  and  resigned.  Her  heart 
was  a  passion-flower,  bearing  within  it  the  crown  of 
thorns  and  the  cross  of  Christ.  Her  ideas  of  heaven  were 
few  and  simple.  She  rejected  the  doctrine  that  it  was 
a  place  of  constant  activity,  and  not  of  repose,  and  be 
lieved  that,  when  she  at  length  reached  it,  she  should 
work  no  more,  but  sit  always  in  a  clean  white  apron  and 
sing  psalms. 

As  Flemming  sat  meditating  on  these  things,  he  paid 
new  homage  in  his  heart  to  the  beauty  and  excellence  of 
the  female  character.  He  thought  of  the  absent  and  the 
dead  ;  and  said,  with  tears  in  his  eyes  : — 

"Shall  I  thank  God  for  the  green  summer,  and  the 
mild  air,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  stars,  and  all  that 
makes  this  world  so  beautiful,  and  not  for  the  good  and 
beautiful  beings  I  have  known  in  it  ?  Has  not  their 
presence  been  sweeter  to  me  than  flowers  ?  Are  they 
not  higher  and  holier  than  the  stars?  Are  they  not 
more  to  me  than  all  things  else  ? " 

Thus  the  morning  passed  away  in  musings ;  and  in  the 
afternoon,  when  Flemming  was  preparing  to  go  down  to 
the  lake,  as  his  custom  was,  a  carriage  drew  up  before  the 
door,  and,  to  his  great  astonishment,  out  jumped  Berkley. 


244  HYPERION, 

The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  give  the  postmaster,  who 
stood  near  the  door,  a  smart  cut  with  his  whip.  The 
sufferer  gently  expostulated,  saying, — 

"  Pray,  Sir,  don't ;  I  am  lame." 

Whereupon  Berkley  desisted,  and  began  instead  to 
shake  the  postmaster's  wife  by  the  shoulders,  and  order 
his  dinner  in  English.  But  all  this  was  done  so  good- 
naturedly,  and  with  such  a  rosy,  laughing  face,  that  no 
offence  was  taken. 

"So  you  have  returned  much  sooner  than  you 
intended,"  said  Memming,  after  the  first  friendly  salu 
tations. 

"Yes,"  replied  Berkley  ;  "  I  became  tired  of  Ischel,— 
very  tired.     I  did  not  find  there  the  friends  I  expected 
Now  I  am  going  back  to  Salzburg,  and  then  to  Gastein, 
There  I  shall  certainly  find  them.     You  must  go  with 
me." 

Flemming  declined  the  invitation  ;  and  proposed  to 
Berkley  that  he  should  join  him  in  his  excursion  on  the 
lake. 

"  You  shall  hear  the  grand  echo  of  the  Falkenstein," 
said  he,  "  and  behold  the  scene  of  the  Bridal  Tragedy ; 
and  then  we  will  go  on  as  far  as  the  village  of  Saint 
Wolfgang,  which  you  have  not  yet  seen,  except  across  the 
lake." 

Well,  this  afternoon  I  devote  to  you  ;  for  to-morrow 
we  part  once  more,  and  who  knows  when  we  shall  meet 
again  ?  " 

They  went  down  to  the  water's  side  without  further 
delay  ;  and,  taking*  a  boat  with  two  oars,  struck  across 
an  elbow  of  the  lake  towards  a  barren  rock  by  the  eastern 
shore,  from  which  a  small  white  monument  shone  in  the 
sun. 


A  ROMANCE.  245 

"  That  monument,"  said  one  of  the  boatmen,  a  stoub 
young  lad  in  leather  breeches,  "Avas  built  by  a  butcher,  to 
the  glory  of  Saint  Wolfgang,  who  saved  him  from  drown 
ing.  He  was  one  day  riding  an  ox  to  market  along  the 
opposite  bank ;  when  the  animal,  taking  fright,  sprang 
into  the  water,  and  swam  over  to  this  place,  with  the 
butcher  on  his  back." 

"And  do  you  think  he  could  have  done  this,"  asked 
Berkley,  "if  Saint  Wolfgang  had  not  helped  ?" 

"Of  course  not  !"  answered  leather-breeches  ;  and  the 
Englishman  laughed. 

From  this  point  they  rowed  along  under  the  shore  to  a 
low  promontory,  upon  which  stood  another  monument, 
commemorating  a  more  tragical  event. 

"  This  is  the  place  I  was  speaking  of,"  said  Flemming, 
as  the  boatmen  rested  on  their  oars.  "  The  melancholy 
and  singular  event  it  commemorates  happened  more  than 
two  centuries  ago.  There  was  a  bridal  party  here  upon 
the  ice,  one  winter  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  dance  the  ice 
broke,  and  the  whole  merry  company  were  drowned  to 
gether,  except  the  fiddlers,  who  Avere  sitting  on  the  shore." 

They  looked  in  silence  at  the  monument,  and  at  the 
blue  quiet  water  under  which  the  bones  of  the  dancers 
lay  buried,  hand  in  hand.  The  monument  is  of  stone, 
painted  white,  with  an  overhanging  roof  to  shelter  it 
from  storms.  In  a  niche  in  front  is  a  small  image  of  the 
Saviour  ;  in  a  sitting  posture  ;  and  an  inscription  upon  a 
marble  tablet  below  says  that  it  Avas  placed  there  by 
Longinus  Walther,  and  his  wife,  Barbara  Juliana  Von 
Hainberg  ;  themselves  long  since  peacefully  crumbled  t» 
dust,  side  by  side,  in  some  churchyard. 

"  That  was  breaking  the  ice  with  a  vengeance  ! "  said 
Berkley,  as  they  pushed  out  into  the  lake  again  13  and 


246  HYPERION, 

erelong  they  were  floating  beneath  the  mighty  precipice 
of  Falkenstein  ;  a  steep  wall  of  rock,  crowned  with  a 
chapel  and  a  hermitage,  where  in  days  of  old  lived  the  holy 
Saint  Wolfgang.  It  is  now  haunted  only  by  an  echo, 
so  distinct  and  loud,  that  one  might  imagine  the  ghost  of 
the  departed  saint  to  be  sitting  there,  and  repeating  the 
voices  from  below, — not  word  by  word,  but  sentence  by 
sentence,  as  if  he  were  passing  them  up  to  the  recording 
angel. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  ! "  shouted  Berkley ;  and  the  sound 
seemed  to  strike  the  wall  of  stone,  like  the  flapping  of 
steel  plates  ; — "  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  How  are  you  to-day, 
Saint  Wolfgang  ?  You  infernal  old  rascal !  How  is  the 
Frau  von  Wolfgang  ? — God  save  great  George,  the  king  1 
Damn  your  eyes  !  Hold  your  tongue  !  Ho  !  ho  !  ha  ! 
ha!  hi!" 

And  the  words  were  recorded  above ;  and  a  voice  re 
peated  them  with  awful  distinctness  in  the  blue  depths 
overhead  ;  and  Flemming  felt  in  his  inmost  soul  the  con 
trast  between  the  holy  heavens,  and  the  mockery  of 
laughter,  and  the  idle  words,  which  fall  back  from  the 
sky  above  us  and  soil  not  its  purity. 

In  half  an  hour  they  were  at  the  village  of  Saint  Wolf 
gang,  threading  a  narrow  street,  above  which  the  roofs  of 
quaint,  picturesque  old  houses  almost  met.  It  led  them 
to  a  Gothic  church  ;  a  magnificent  one  for  a  village  ; — in 
front  of  which  wa.3  a  small  court,  shut  in  by  Italian-look 
ing  houses,  with  balconies,  and  flowers  at  the  windows. 
Here  a  bronze  fountain  of  elaborate  workmanship  was 
playing  in  the  shade.  On  its  summit  stood  an  image  of 
the  patron  saint  of  the  village ;  and,  running  round  the 
under  lip  of  the  water-basin  below,  they  read  this  inscrip 
tion  in  old  German  rhymes : — - 


A  ROMANCE.  24? 

"  I  am  in  the  honor  of  Saint  "Wolfgang  raised.  Abbot 
Wolfgang  Habel  of  Emensee,  he  hath  made  me  for  the 
use  and  delight  of  poor  pilgrim  wight.  Neither  gold  nor 
wine  hath  he  ;  at  this  Avater  shall  he  merry  be.  In  the 
year  of  the  Lord  fifteen  hundred  and  fifteen  hath  the 
work  completed  been.  God  be  praised  ! " 

As  they  were  deciphering  the  rude  characters  of  this 
pious  inscription,  a  village  priest  came  down  a  high  flight 
of  steps  from  the  parsonage  near  the  church,  and  courte 
ously  saluted  the  strangers.  After  returning  the  saluta 
tion,  the  mad  Englishman,  without  preface,  asked  him  how 
many  natural  children  were  annually  born  in  the  parish. 
The  question  seemed  to  astonisli  the  good  father  ;  but  he 
answered  it  civilly,  as  he  did  several  other  questions, 
which  Flemming  thought  rather  indiscreet,  to  say  the 
least. 

"  You  will  excuse  our  curiosity,"  said  he  to  the  priest, 
by  way  of  apology.  "We  are  strangers  from  distant 
countries.  My  friend  h  an  Englishman,  and  I  am  an 
American." 

Berkley,  however,  was  not  so  easily  silenced.  After  a 
few  moments'  conversation,  he  broke  out  into  most  au 
dacious  Latin,  in  which  the  only  words  clearly  intelligible 
were  : — 

"Plurimum  reverende,  in  Christo,  religiosissime  ac 
clarissime  Domme,  necnon  et  amice  observandissime  ! 
Petrus  sic  est  locutus  :  'Nee  argentum  mihi,  nee  aurum 
est ;  sed  quod  habeo,  hoc  tibi  do  ;  surge  et  ambula.'" 

He  seemed  to  be  speaking  of  the  fountain.  The  priest 
answered  meekly, — 

"  Non  intellexi,  Domine  !  " 

But  Berkley  continued  with  great  volubility  to  speak 
of  his  being  a  stranger  in  the  land,  and  all  men  being 


248  HYPERION, 

strangers  upon  earth,  and  hoping  to  meet  the  good  priest 
hereafter  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  The  priest  seemed 
confounded  and  abashed.  Through  the  mist  of  a  strange 
pronunciation,  he  could  recognize  only  here  and  there  a 
familiar  word.  He  took  out  his  snuff-box  ;  and  tried  to 
quote  a  passage  from  Saint  Paul : — 

"  Tit  dixit  Sanctus  Paulus  :     Qui  bene  facit " 

Here  his  memory  failed  him,  or,  as  the  French  say,  he 
was  at  the  end  of  his  Latin,  and,  stretching  forth  his  long 
forefinger,  he  concluded  in  German  : — 

"  Yes  ; — I  don't — so  clearly  remember — what  he  did 
Bay." 

The  Englishman  helped  him  through  with  a  moral 
phrase  ;  and  then,  pulling  off  his  hafc,  exclaimed  very 
solemnly  : — 

"  Vale,  Domine  doctissime  et  reverendissime  ! " 

And  the  Dominie,  as  if  pursued  by  a  demon,  made  a 
sudden  and  precipitate  retreat  down  a  flight  of  steps  into 
the  street. 

"  There  ! "  said  Berkley,  laughing,  "  I  beat  him  at  his 
>wn  weapons.  What  do  you  say  of  my  Latin  ?  " 

"I  say  of  it,"  replied  Flemming,  "what  Holofernes 
<said  of  Sir  Nathaniel's  : — '  Priscian  a  little  scratched  ; 
'twill  serve.'  I  think  I  have  heard  better.  But  what  a 
whim  !  I  thought  I  should  have  laughed  aloud." 

They  were  still  sitting  by  the  bronze  fountain,  when  the 
priest  returned,  accompanied  by  a  short  man,  with  largo 
feet,  and  a  long  blue  surtout,  so  greasy,  that  it  reminded 
one  of  Polilla's  in  the  Spanish  play,  which  was  lined  witl? 
slices  of  pork.  His  countenance  was  broad  and  placid, 
but  his  blue  eyes  gleamed  with  a  wild,  mysterious,  sorrow 
ful  expression.  Flemming  thought  the  Latin  contest 
was  to  be  renewed,  with  more  powder  and  heavier  guns. 


A  ROMANCE.  349 

He  was  mistaken.  The  stranger  saluted  him  in  German, 
and  said,  that,  having  heard  he  was  from  America,  he 
had  come  to  question  him  about  that  distant  country, 
for  which  he  was  on  the  point  of  embarking.  There  was 
nothing  peculiar  in  his  manner,  nor  in  the  questions  he 
asked,  nor  the  remarks  he  made.  They  were  the  usual 
questions  and  remarks  about  cities  and  climate  and  sail 
ing  the  sea.  At  length  Flemming  asked  him  the  object 
of  his  journey  to  America.  The  stranger  came  close  to 
him,  and,  lowering  his  voice,  said  very  solemnly  : — 

"  That  holy  man,  Frederick  Baraga,  missionary  among 
the  Indians  at  Lacroix,  on  Lake  Superior,  has  returned 
to  his  fatherland,  Krain  ;  and  I  am  chosen  by  Heaven  to 
go  forth  as  Minister  Extraordinary  of  Christ,  to  unite  all 
nations  and  people  in  one  church  !" 

Flemming  almost  started  at  the  singular  earnestness 
with  which  he  uttered  these  words ;  and  looked  at  him 
attentively,  thinking  to  see  the  face  of  a  madman.  But 
the  modest,  unassuming  look  of  that  placid  countenance 
was  unchanged ;  only  in.  the  eyes  burned  a  mysterious 
light,  as  if  candles  had  been  lighted  in  the  brain,  to  mag 
nify  the  daylight  there. 

"  It  is  truly  a  high  vocation,"  said  he,  in  reply.  "  But  are 
you  sure  that  this  is  no  hallucination  ?  Are  you  certain 
that  you  have  been  chosen  by  Heaven  for  this  great  work?  " 

"  I  am  certain,"  replied  the  German,  in  a  tone  of  great 
calmness  and  sincerity ;  "  and  if  Saint  Peter  and  Saint 
Paul  should  come  down  from  heaven  to  assure  me  of  it, 
my  faith  would  be  no  stronger  than  it  now  is.  It  has 
been  declared  to  me  by  many  signs  and  wonders.  I  can 
no  longer  doubt  nor  hesitate.  I  have  already  heard  the 
voice  of  the  Spirit,  speaking  to  me  at  night ;  and  I  know 
that  I  am  an  Apostle,  and  chosen  for  this  work." 


250  HYPERION. 

Such  was  ihe  calm  enthusiasm  with  which  he  spoke, 
that  Flemming  could  not  chose  but  listen.  He  felt  inter 
ested  in  this  strange  being.  There  was  something  awe- 
inspiring  in  the  spirit  that  possessed  him.  After  a  snort 
pause,  he  continued  : — 

"  If  you  wish  to  know  who  I  am,  I  can  tell  you  in  few 
words.  I  think  you  will  not  find  the  story  without  in 
terest." 

He  then  went  on  to  relate  the  circumstances  recorded 
in  the  following  chapter. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   STORY  OF  BROTHER    BERKARDFS. 

"  T"  was  born  in  the  city  of  Stein,  in  the  land  of  Krain 
-L  My  pious  mother,  Gertrude,  sang  me  psalms  an<J 
spiritual  songs  in  childhood  ;  and  often,  when  I  awoke  iu 
the  night,  I  saw  her  still  sitting  patiently  at  her  work,  by 
the  stove,  and  heard  her  singing  those  hymns  of  heayen; 
or  praying  in  the  midnight  darkness  when  her  work  was 
done.  It  was  for  me  she  prayed.  Thus,  from  my  ear 
liest  childhood,  I  breathed  the  breath  of  pious  aspirations. 
Afterwards  I  went  to  Laybach,  as  a  student  of  theology  ; 
and,  after  the  usual  course  of  study,  was  ordained  a  priest. 
I  went  forth  to  the  care  of  souls  ;  my  own  soul  filled  with 
the  faith  that  erelong  all  people  would  be  united  in  one 
church.  Yet  at  times  my  heart  was  heavy,  to  behold  how 
many  nations  there  are  who  have  not  heard  of  Christ ; 
and  how  those  who  are  called  Christians  are  divided  into 
numberless  sects,  and  how  among  these  are  many  who  are 
Christians  in  name  only.  I  determined  to  devote  myself 
to  the  great  work  of  the  one  Church  Universal,  and,  for 
this  purpose,  to  give  myself  wholly  up  to  the  study  of  the 
Evangelists  and  the  Fathers.  I  retired  to  the  Benedictine 
cloister  of  Saint  Paul  in  the  valley  of  Lavant.  The  father- 
confessor  in  the  nunnery  of  Laak,  where  I  then  lived, 
strengthened  me  in  this  resolve.  I  had  long  walked  with 
this  angel  of  God  in  a  human  form,  and  his  parting  ben 
ediction  sank  deep  into  my  soul.  The  Prince-Abbot 

351 


252  HYPERION, 

Berthold,  of  blessed  memory,  was  then  head  of  the  Bene- 
iictine  convent.  He  received  me  kindly,  and  led  me  tc 
the  library  ;  where  I  gazed  with  secret  rapture  on  the  vast 
folios  of  the  Christian  Fathers,  from  which,  as  from  an 
arsenal,  I  was  to  draw  the  weapons  of  holy  warfare.  In 
the  study  of  these  the  year  of  my  novitiate  passed.  I  be 
came  a  Franciscan  friar,  and  took  the  name  of  Brothei 
Bernardus.  Yet  my  course  of  life  remained  unchanged. 
I  seldom  left  the  cloister ;  but  sat  in  my  cell,  and  pored 
over  those  tomes  of  holy  wisdom.  About  this  time  the 
aged  confessor  in  Laak  departed  this  life.  His  death  was 
made  known  to  me  in  a  dream.  It  must  have  been  after 
midnight,  when  I  thought  that  I  came  into  the  church, 
which  was  brilliantly  lighted  up.  The  dead  body  of  the 
venerable  saint  was  brought  in,  attended  by  a  great  crowd. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  must  go  up  into  the  pulpit  and 
pronounce  his  funeral  oration ;  and  as  I  ascended  the 
stairs  the  words  of  my  text  came  into  my  mind, — '  Blessed 
in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  is  the  death  of  his  saints.'  My 
funeral  sermon  ended  in  a  strain  of  exultation  ;  and  I 
awoke  with  '  Amen  ! '  upon  my  lips.  A  few  days  after 
wards,  I  heard  that  on  that  night  the  old  man  died. 
After  this  event,  I  became  restless  and  melancholy.  I 
strove  in  vain  to  drive  away  my  gloomy  thoughts.  I  could 
no  longer  study.  I  was  no  longer  contented  in  the  clois 
ter.  I  even  thought  of  leaving  it. 

"  One  night,  I  had  gone  to  bed  early,  according  to  my 
custom,  and  had  fallen  asleep.  Suddenly  I  was  awakened 
by  a  bright  and  wonderful  light,  which  shone  all  about 
me,  and  filled  me  with  heavenly  rapture.  Shortly  after, 
I  heard  a  voice,  which  pronounced  distinctly  these  words, 
in  the  Sclavonian  tongue  : — '  Remain  in  the  cloister ! '  It 
was  the  voice  of  my  departed  mother.  I  was  fully  awakej 


A  ROMANCE.  253 

yet  saw  nothing  but  the  bright  light,  which  disappeared 
when  the  words  had  been  spoken.  Still  it  was  broad  day 
light  in  my  chamber.  I  thought  I  had  slept  beyond  my 
usual  hour.  I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  just  one 
o'oclock  after  midnight.  Suddenly  the  daylight  yanished, 
and  it  was  dark.  In  the  morning  I  arose,  as  if  new-born, 
through  the  wonderful  light  and  the  words  of  my  mother's 
yoice.  It  was  no  dream.  I  knew  it  was  the  will  of  God 
that  I  should  stay ;  and  I  could  again  give  myself  up  to 
quiet  study.  I  read  the  whole  Bible  through  once  more 
in  the  original  text ;  and  went  on  with  the  Fathers  in 
chronological  order.  Often,  after  the  apparition  of  the 
light,  I  awoke  at  the  same  hour ;  and  though  I  heard  no 
voice  and  saw  no  light,  yet  was  refreshed  with  heavenly 
consolation. 

"  Not  long  after  this,  an  important  event  happened  in 
the  cloister.  In  the  absence  of  the  deacon  of  the  abbey, 
I  was  to  preach  the  Thanksgiving  sermon  of  Harvest- 
home.  During  the  week,  the  Prince-Abbot  Berthold 
gave  up  the  ghost  ;  and  my  sermon  became  at  once  a 
thanksgiving  and  funeral  sermon.  Perhaps  it  may  not 
be  unworthy  of  notice,  that  I  was  thus  called  to  pronounce 
the  burial  discourse  over  the  body  of  the  last  reigning 
spiritual  Prince-Abbot  in  Germany.  He  was  a  man  of 
God,  and  worthy  of  this  honor. 

"  One  year  after  this  event,  I  was  appointed  Professor 
of  Biblical  Hermeneutics  in  Klagenfurt,  and  left  the  ab 
bey  for  ever.  In  Klagenfurt  I  remained  ten  years,  dwell 
ing  in  the  same  house,  and  eating  at  the  same  table,  with 
seventeen  other  Professors.  Their  conversation  naturally 
suggested  new  topics  of  study,  and  brought  to  my  notice 
books  which  I  had  never  before  seen.  One  day  I  heard 
at  table,  that  Maurus  Cappellari,  a  monk  of  Camaldoli, 


254 

had  been  elected  Pope,  under  the  name  of  Gregory  Six. 
teenth.  He  was  spoken  of  as  a  very  learned  man,  who 
had  written  many  books.  At  this  time  I  was  a  firm  be 
liever  in  the  Pope's  infallibility  ;  and  when  I  heard  these 
books  mentioned,  there  arose  in  me  an  irresistible  longing 
to  read  them.  I  inquired  for  them  ;  but  they  were  no 
where  to  be  had.  At  length  I  heard  that  his  most  im 
portant  work,  '  The  Triumph  of  the  Holy  See  and  of  the 
Church,'  had  been  translated  into  German  and  published 
in  Augsburg.  Erelong  the  precious  volume  was  in  my 
hands.  I  began  to  read  it  with  the  profoundest  awe. 
The  farther  I  read,  the  more  my  wonder  grew.  The  sub 
ject  was  of  the  deepest  interest  to  me.  I  could  not  lay 
the  book  out  of  my  hand,  till  I  had  read  it  through  with 
the  closest  attention.  Now  at  length  my  eyes  were  opened. 
I  saw  before  me  a  monk  who  had  been  educated  in  an 
Italian  cloister  ;  who  indeed  had  read  much,  and  yet  only 
what  was  calculated  to  strengthen  him  in  the  prejudices 
of  his  childhood,  and  who  had  entirely  neglected  those 
studies  upon  which  a  bishop  should  most  rely,  in  order  to 
work  out  the  salvation  of  man.  I  perceived,  at  the  same 
time,  that  this  was  the  strongest  instrument  for  battering 
down  the  walls  which  separate  Christian  from  Christian. 
I  saw,  though  as  yet  dimly,  the  way  in  which  the  union 
of  Christians  in  the  one  true  Church  was  to  be  accom 
plished.  I  knew  not  whether  to  be  most  astonished  at 
my  own  blindness,  that,  in  all  my  previous  studies,  I  had 
not  perceived  what  the  reading  of  this  single  book  made 
manifest  to  me  ;  or  at  the  blindness  of  the  Pope,  who  had 
undertaken  to  justify  such  follies,  without  perceiving  that 
at  the  same  moment  he  was  himself  lying  in  fatal  error. 
But  since  I  have  learned  more  thoroughly  the  ways  of  the 
Lord,  I  am  now  no  more  astonished  at  this,  but  pray  onlj 


A  ROMANCE.  355 

to  Divine  Providence,  who  so  mysteriously  prepares  all 
people  to  be  united  in  one  true  Church.  I  no  longer  be 
lieved  in  the  Pope's  infallibility ;  nay,  I  believed  even, 
that,  to  the  great  injury  of  humanity,  he  lay  in  fatal  er 
ror.  I  felt,  moreover,  that  now  the  time  had  fully  come 
when  I  should  publicly  show  myself,  and  found  in  Amer 
ica  a  parish  and  a  school,  and  become  the  spiritual  guide 
of  men  and  the  schoolmaster  of  children. 

"  It  was  then,  and  on  that  account,  that  1  wrote  in  the 
Latin  tongue  my  great  work  011  Biblical  Hermeneutics. 
But  in  Germany  it  cannot  be  published.  The  Austrian 
censor  of  the  press  cannot  find  time  to  read  it ;  though 
I  think,  that,  if  I  have  spent  so  many  laborious  days  and 
sleepless  nights  in  writing  it,  this  man  ought  likewise  to 
find  time  enough  not  only  to  read  it,  but  to  examine  all 
the  grounds  of  my  reasoning,  and  point  out  to  me  my  er 
rors,  if  he  can  find  any.  Notwithstanding,  the  Spirit 
gave  mo  no  repose,  but  urged  me  erer  mightily  on  to  the 
perfection  of  my  great  work. 

"  One  morning  I  sat  writing,  under  peculiar  influences 
of  the  Spirit,  upon  the  Confusion  of  Tongues,  the  Divi 
sion  of  the  People,  and  the  importance  of  the  study  of 
Comparative  Philology,  in  reference  to  their  union  in  one 
Church.  So  wrapped  was  I  in  the  thought,  that  I  came 
late  into  my  lecture-room  ;  and  after  lecture  returned  to 
my  chamber,  where  I  wrote  till  the  clock  struck  twelve. 
At  dinner,  one  of  the  Professors  asked  if  any  one  had 
seen  the  star  about  which  so  much  was  said.  The  Pro 
fessor  of  Physics  said  that  the  student  Johannes  Schmiiike 
had  come  to  him  in  the  greatest  haste,  and  besought  him 
to  go  out  and  see  the  wonderful  star  ;  but,  being  incredu 
lous  about  it,  he  made  no  haste,  and  when  they  came  into 
the  street,  the  star  had  disappeared.  When  I  heard  the 


256  HYPERION, 

star  spoken  of,  my  soul  was  filled  with  rapture  ;  and  a 
voice  within  me  seemed  to  say,  '  The  great  time  is  ap- 
pron-ohi^g ;  labor  unweariedly  in  thy  work."  I  sought 
out  the  student,  and,  like  Herod,  inquired  diligently  at 
what  one  the  star  appeared.  He  informed  me,  that., 
just  as  the  clock  was  striking  eight  in  the  morning,  he 
w^ent  out  of  his  house  to  go  to  the  college,  and  saw  on 
the  square  a  crowd  looking  at  a  bright  star.  It  was  the 
very  hour  when  I  was  writing  alone  in  my  chamber  on 
the  importance  of  Comparative  Philology  in  bringing 
about  the  union  of  all  nations.  I  felt  that  my  hour  had 
come.  Strangely  moved,  I  walked  up  and  down  my 
chamber.  The  evening  twilight  came  on.  I  lighted  my 
lamp,  and  drew  the  green  curtains  before  the  windows, 
and  sat  down  to  read.  But  hardly  had  I  taken  the  book 
into  my  hand,  when  the  Spirit  began  to  move  me,  and 
urge  me  then  to  make  my  last  decision  and  resolve.  I 
made  a  secret  vow  that  I  would  undertake  the  voyage  to 
America.  Suddenly  my  troubled  thoughts  were  still. 
An  unwonted  rapture  filled  my  heart.  I  sat  and  read 
till  the  supper-bell  rang.  They  were  speaking  at  table 
of  a  red,  glaring  meteor,  which  had  just  been  seen  in 
the  air,  southeast  from  Klagenfurt,  and  had  suddenly 
disappeared  with  a  dull,  hollow  sound.  It  was  the  very 
moment  at  which  I  had  taken  my  final  resolution  to  leave 
my  native  land.  Every  great  purpose  and  event  of  my 
life  seemed  heralded  and  attended  by  divine  messengers, 
— the  voices  of  the  dead,  the  bright  morning  star  shining 
in  the  clear  sunshine,  and  the  red  meteor  in  the  evening 
twilight. 

"  I  now  began  seriously  to  prepare  for  my  departure. 
The  chamber  I  occupied  had  once  been  the  library  of  a 
Franciscan  convent.  Only  a  thick  wall  separated  it  from 


A  ROMANCE.  5i57 

the  church.  In  this  wall  was  a  niche,  with  heavy  folding- 
doors,  which  had  served  the  Franciscans  as  a  repository 
for  prohibited  books.  Here  also  I  kept  my  papers,  and 
my  great  work  on  Biblical  Hermeneutics.  The  inside  of 
the  doors  was  covered  with  horrible  caricatures  of  Luther, 
Melancthon,  Calvin,  and  other  great  men.  I  used  often 
to  look  at  them  with  the  deepest  melancholy,  when  1 
thought  that  these  great  men  likewise  had  labored  upon 
earth,  and  fought  with  Satan  in  the  Church.  But  they 
were  persecuted,  denounced,  condemned  to  die.  So  per 
haps  will  it  be  with  me.  I  thought  of  this  often,  and 
armed  myself  against  the  fear  of  death.  I  was  in  constant 
apprehension,  lest  the  police  should  search  my  chamber 
during  my  absence,  and,  by  examining  my  papers,  discover 
my  doctrine  and  designs.  But  the  Spirit  said  to  me  : 
•'  Be  of  good  cheer  ;  I  will  so  blind  the  eyes  of  thy  enemies, 
that  it  shall  not  once  occur  to  them  to  think  of  thy  writ 
ings.' 

"  At  length,  after  many  difficulties  and  temptations  oi 
the  Devil,  I  am  on  my  way  to  America.  Yesterday  1 
took  leave  of  my  dearest  friend,  Gregory  Kuscher,  in 
Hallstadt.  lie  seemed  filled  with  the  Spirit  of  God,  and 
has  wonderfully  strengthened  me  in  my  purpose.  All 
the  hosts  of  heaven  looked  on,  and  were  glad.  The  old 
man  kissed  me,  at  parting  ;  and  I  ascended  the  mountain 
as  if  angels  hore  me  up  in  their  arms.  Near  the  summit 
lay  a  newly  fallen  avalanche,  over  which,  as  yet,  no  foot 
steps  had  passed.  This  was  my  last  temptation.  '  Ha  ! ' 
cried  I  aloud,  '  Satan  has  prepared  a  snare  for  me ;  but  I 
will  conquer  him  with  godly  weapons.'  I  sprang  over 
the  treacherous  snow,  with  greater  faith  than  St.  Peter 
walked  the  waters  of  the  Lake  of  Galilee  ;  and  came  down 
the  valley,  while  the  mountain  peaks  yet  shone  in  the 
17 


358  HYPERION, 

setting  sun.  God  smiles  upon  me.  I  go  forth  full  of 
hopeful  courage.  On  Christmas  next,  I  shall  excom 
municate  the  Pope." 

Saying  these  words,  he  slowly  and  solemnly  took  hia 
leave,  like  one  conscious  of  the  great  events  which 
awaited  him,  and  withdrew  with  the  other  priest  into  the 
church.  Flemming  could  not  smile  as  Berkley  did  ;  for 
in  the  solitary,  singular  enthusiast,  who  had  just  left  them, 
he  saw  only  another  melancholy  victim  to  solitude  and 
over-labor  of  the  brain ;  and  felt  how  painful  a  thing  it  is 
thus  to  become  unconsciously  the  almsman  of  other  men's 
sympathies,  a  kind  of  blind  beggar  for  the  charity  of  a 
good  wish  or  a  prayer. 

The  sun  was  now  setting.  Silently  they  floated  back 
to  Saint  Gilgen,  amid  the  cool  evening  shadows.  The 
village  clock  struck  nine,  as  they  landed  ;  but  as  Berkley 
was  to  depart  early  in  the  morning,  he  went  to  bed  be 
times.  On  bidding  Flemming  good  night,  he  said  : — 

'•'I  shall  not  see  you  in  the  morning  ;  so  good  by,  and 
God  bless  you.  Eemember  my  parting  words.  Never 
mind  trifles.  In  this  world  a  man  must  either  be  anvil 
or  hammer.  Care  killed  a  cat ! " 

"I  have  heard  you  say  that  so  often,"  replied  Flem 
ming,  laughing,  "that  I  begin  to  believe  it.  But  1 
wonder  if  Care  shaved  his  left  eyebrow  after  doing  the 
deed,  as  the  ancient  Egyptians  used  to  do  ! " 

"  Aha  !  now  you  are  sweeeping  cobwebs  from  the  sky  \ 
Good  night !  Good  night ! " 

A  sorrowful  event  happened  in  the  neighborhood  thai 
night.  The  widow's  child  died  suddenly.  "  Woe  is 
me  ! " — thus  mourns  the  childless  mother  in  one  of  the 
funeral  songs  of  Greenland; — "Woe  is  me,  that  I  should 
gaze  upon  thy  place  and  find  it  vacant !  In  vain  for  thee 


A  ROMANCE.  259 

thy  mother  dries  the  sen-drenched  garments  !"  Not  in 
these  words,  bat  in  thoughts  like  these,  did  the  poor 
mother  bewail  the  death  of  her  child,  thinking  mostly  of 
the  vacant  place,  and  the  daily  cares  and  solicitudes  of 
maternal  love.  Flemming  saw  a  light  in  her  chamber, 
and  shadows  moving  to  and  fro,  as  he  stood  by  the 
window,  gazing  into  the  starry,  silent  sky.  But  he  little 
thought  of  the  awful  domestic  tragedy  which  was  even 
then  enacted  behind  those  thin  curtains, 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

FOOTPRINTS    OF  ANGELS. 

rf  was  Sunday  morning ;  and  the  church  bells  were  all 
ringing  together.  From  the  neighboring  villages 
came  the  solemn,  joyful  sounds,  floating  through  the 
sunny  air,  mellow  and  faint  and  low, — all  mingling  into 
one  harmonious  chime,  like  the  sound  of  some  distant 
organ  in  heaven.  Anon  they  ceased  ;  and  the  woods,  and 
the  clouds,  and  the  whole  village,  and  the  very  air  itself, 
seemed  to  pray, — so  silent  was  it  everywhere. 

Two  venerable  old  men,  high-priests  and  patriarchs 
were  tLey  in  the  land — went  up  the  pulpit  stairs,  as 
Moses  and  Aaron  went  up  Mount  Hor,  in  the  sight  of  all 
the  congregation, — for  the  pulpit  stairs  were  in  front,  and 
very  high. 

Paul  Flemming  will  never  forget  the  sermon  he  heard 
that  day, — no,  not  even  if  he  should  live  to  be  as  old  as 
he  who  preached  it.  The  text  was,  "  I  know  that  my 
Redeemer  liveth."  It  was  meant  to  console  the  pious, 
poor  widow,  who  sat  right  below  him  at  the  foot  of  the 
pulpit  stairs,  all  in  black,  and  her  heart  breaking.  He 
said  nothing  of  the  terrors  of  death,  nor  of  the  gloom  of 
the  narrow  house ;  but,  looking  beyond  these  things,  as 
mere  circumstances  to  which  the  imagination  mainly 
gives  importance,  he  told  his  hearers  of  the  innocence  of 
childhood  upon  earth,  and  the  holiness  of  childhood  in 
heaven,  and  horw  the  beautiful  Lord  Jesus  was  once  a  lit* 
260 


A  ROMANCE.  261 

the  child,  and  now  in  heaven  the  spirits  of  little  children 
walked  with  him,  and  gathered  flowers  in  the  fields  of 
Paradise.  Good  old  man  !  In  behalf  of  humanity,  I 
thank  thee  for  these  benignant  words  !  And  still  more 
than  I,  the  bereaved  mother  thanked  thee  ;  and  from 
that  hour,  though  she  wept  in  secret  for  her  child,  yet 

"  She  knew  he  was  with  Jesus, 
And  she  asked  him  not  again." 

After  the  sermon,  Paul  Plemming  walked  forth  alone 
into  the  churchyard.  There  was  no  one  there,  save  a 
little  boy,  who  was  fishing  with  a  pin  hook  in  a  grave 
half  full  of  water.  But  a  few  moments  afterward,  through 
the  arched  gateway  under  the  belfry  came  a  funeral  pro 
cession.  At  its  head  walked  a  priest  in  white  surplice, 
chanting.  Peasants,  old  and  young,  followed  him,  with 
burning  tapers  in  their  hands.  A  young  girl  carried  in 
her  arms  a  dead  child,  wrapped  in  its  little  winding-sheet. 
The  grave  was  close  under  the  wall,  by  the  church-door. 
A  vase  of  holy  water  stood  beside  it.  The  sexton  took  the 
child  from  the  girl's  arms,  and  put  it  into  a  coffin  ;  and, 
as  he  placed  it  in  the  grave,  the  girl  held  over  it  a  cross 
wreathed  with  roses,  and  the  priests  and  peasants  sang  a 
funeral  hymn.  When  this  was  over,  the  priest  sprinkled 
the  grave  and  the  crowd  with  holy  water  ;  and  then  they 
all  went  into  the  church,  each  one  stopping,  as  he  passed 
the  grave,  to  throw  a  handful  of  earth  into  it,  and 
sprinkle  it  with  holy  water. 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  the  voice  of  the  priest  was 
heard  saying  mass  in  the  church,  and  Flemming  saw  the 
toothless  old  sexton  treading  the  fresh  earth  into  the  grave 
of  the  little  child  with  his  clouted  shoes.  He  approached 


262  HYPERION, 

him,  and  asked  the  age  of  the  deceesed.  The  sexton 
leaned  a  moment  on  his  spade,  and,  shrugging  his  shoul 
ders,  replied : 

"  Only  an  hour  or  two.  It  was  born  in  the  night,  and 
died  this  morning  early." 

"A  brief  existence,"  said  Flemming.  "The  child 
seems  to  have  been  born  only  to  be  buried  and  have  its 
name  recorded  on  a  wooden  tombstone." 

The  sexton  went  on  with  his  work,  and  made  no  reply. 
Flemming  still  lingered  among  the  graves,  gazing  with 
wonder  at  the  strange  devices  by  which  man  has  rendered 
death  horrible  and  the  grave  loathsome. 

In  the  temple  of  Juno  at  Elis,  Sleep  and  his  twin- 
brother,  Death,  were  represented  as  children  reposing  in 
the  arms  of  Night.  On  various  funeral  monuments  of 
the  ancients,  the  Genius  of  Death  is  sculptured  as  a  beau- 
ful  youth  leaning  on  an  inverted  torch,  in  the  attitude 
of  repose,  his  wings  folded  and  his  feet  crossed.  In  such 
peaceful  and  attractive  forms  did  the  imagination  of  an 
cient  poets  and  sculptors  represent  death.  And  these 
where  men  in  whose  souls  the  religion  of  Nature  was  like 
the  light  of  stars,  beautiful,  but  faint  and  cold  !  Strange, 
that,  in  latter  days,  this  angel  of  God,  which  leads  us  with 
a  genOe  hand  into  the  "Land  of  the  great  departed, 
into  ire  silent  Land,"  should  have  been  transformed  into 
a  monstrous  and  terrific  thing  !  Such  is  the  spectral  rider 
on  the  white  horse ; — such  the  ghastly  skeleton  with 
scythe  and  hour-glass, — the  Eeaper,  whose  name  is 
Death  ! 

One  of  the  most  popular  themes  of  poetry  and  paint 
ing  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  continuing  down  even  into 
modern  times,  was  the  Dance  of  Death.  In  almost  all 
languages  is  it  written, — the  apparition  of  the  grim  spec- 


A  ROMANCE.  263 

tre  putting  a  sudden  stop  to  all  business,  and  leading 
men  away  into  the  "  remarkable  retirement "  of  the  grave. 
It  is  written  in  an  ancient  Spanish  poem,  and  painted  on 
a  wooden  bridge  in  Switzerland.  The  designs  of  Holbein 
are  well  known.  The  most  striking  among  them  is  that, 
where,  from  a  group  of  children  sitting  round  a  cottage 
hearth,  Death  has  taken  one  by  the  hand,  and  is  leading 
it  out  of  the  door.  Quietly  and  unresisting  goes  the  little 
child,  and  in  its  countenance  no  grief,  but  wonder  only  ; 
while  the  other  children  are  weeping  and  stretching  forth 
their  hands  in  vain  towards  their  departing  brother.  It 
is  a  beautiful  design,  in  all  save  the  skeleton.  An 
angel  had  been  better,  with  folded  wings,  and  torch 
inverted. 

And  now  the  sun  was  growing  high  and  warm.  A  lit' 
tie  chapel,  whose  door  stood  open,  seemed  to  invite  Flem- 
ming  to  enter  and  enjoy  the  grateful  coolness.  He  went 
in.  There  was  no  one  there.  The  walls  were  covered 
with  paintings  and  sculpture  of  the  rudest  kind,  and  with 
a  few  funeral  tablets.  There  was  nothing  there  to  move 
the  heart  to  devotion ;  but  in  that  hour  the  heart  of 
Flemming  was  weak, — weak  as  a  child's.  He  bowed  his 
stubborn  knees,  and  wept.  And,  0,  how  many  disap 
pointed  hopes,  how  many  bitter  recollections,  how  much 
of  wounded  pride  and  requited  love,  were  in  those  tears 
through  which  he  read,  on  a  marble  tablet  in  the  chapel 
wall  opposite,  this  singular  inscription  : — 

"Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.  It  comes  not 
back  again.  "Wisely  improve  the  Present.  It  is  thine. 
Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  Future,  without  fear,  and 
with  a  manly  heart. " 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  unknown  tenant  of  that  grave 
had  opened  his  lips  of  dust,  and  spoken  to  him  the  words 


264  HYPERION, 

of  consolation,  which  his  soul  needed,  and  which  no  friend 
had  yet  spoken.  In  a  moment  the  anguish  of  his  thoughts 
was  still.  The  stone  was  rolled  away  from  the  door  of 
his  heart ;  death  was  no  longer  there,  but  an  angel 
clothed  in  white.  He  stood  up,  and  his  eyes  were  no 
more  bleared  with  tears ;  and,  looking  into  the  bright 
morning  heaven,  he  said  : — 

"  I  will  be  strong  ! " 

Men  sometimes  go  down  into  tombs,  with  painful  long 
ings  to  behold  once  more  the  faces  of  their  departed 
friends  ;  and  as  they  gaze  upon  them,  lying  there  so  peace 
fully  with  the  semblance  that  they  wore  on  earth,  the 
sweet  breath  of  heaven  touches  them,  and  the  features 
crumble  and  fall  together,  and  arc  but  dust.  So  did  his 
soul  then  descend  for  the  last  time  into  the  great  tomb  of 
the  Past,  with  painful  longings  to  behold  once  more  the 
dear  faces  of  those  he  had  loved  ;  and  the  sweet  breath 
of  heaven  touched  them,  and  they  would  not  stay,  but 
crumbled  away  and  perished  as  he  gazed.  They,  too, 
were  dust.  And  thus,  far-sounding,  he  heard  the  great 
gate  of  the  Past  shut  behind  him,  as  the  divine  poet  did 
the  gate  of  Paradise,  when  the  angel  pointed  him  the  way 
up  the  Holy  Mountain  ;  and  to  him  likewise  was  it  for 
bidden  to  look  back. 

In  the  life  of  every  man  there  are  sudden  transitions  of 
feeling,  which  seem  almost  miraculous.  At  once,  as  if 
some  magician  had  touched  the  heavens  and  the  earth, 
the  dark  clouds  melt  into  the  air,  the  wind  falls,  and 
serenity  succeeds  the  storm.  The  causes  which  produce 
these  sudden  changes  may  have  been  long  at  work  within 
us ;  but  the  changes  themselves  are  instantaneous,  and 
apparently  without  sufficient  cause.  It  was  so  with  Fleni- 
ming  ;  and  from  that  hour  forth  he  resolved  that  he  would 


A  ROMANCE.  265 

no  longer  veer  with  every  shifting  wind  of  circumstance, 
— no  longer  be  a  child's  plaything  in  the  hands  of  Fate, 
wmch  we  ourselves  do  make  or  mar.  He  resolved  hence 
forward  not  to  lean  on  others  ;  "but  to  walk  self-confident 
and  self-possessed  ; — no  longer  to  waste  his  years  in  vain 
regrets,  nor  wait  the  fulfilment  of  boundless  hopes  and 
indiscreet  desires  ;  but  to  live  in  the  Present  wisely,  alike 
forgetful  of  the  Past,  and  careless  of  what  the  mysterious 
Future  might  bring.  And  from  that  moment  he  was 
calm  and  strong  ;  he  was  reconciled  with  himself.  His 
thoughts  turned  to  his  distant  home  beyond  the  sea.  An 
indescribable  sweet  feeling  rose  within  him. 

"Thither  will  I  turn  my  wandering  footsteps,"  said 
he,  "and  be  a  man  among  men,  and  no  longer  a  dreamer 
among  shadows.  Henceforth  be  mine  a  life  of  action  and 
reality  !  I  will  work  in  my  own  sphere,  nor  wish  it  other 
than  it  is.  This  alone  is  health  and  happiness.  This 
alone  is  Life, — 

'  Life  that  shall  send 
A  challenge  to  its  end, 
And  when  it  comes,  say,  Welcome,  friend ! ' 

Why  have  I  not  made  these  sage  reflections,  this 
wise  resolve,  sooner  ?  Can  such  a  simple  result  spring 
only  from  the  long  and  intricate  process  of  experience  ? 
Alas  !  it  is  not  till  time,  with  reckless  hand,  has  torn 
out  half  the  leaves  from  the  Book  of  Human  Life,  to 
light  the  fires  of  passion  with,  from  day  to  day,  that 
man  begins  to  see  that  the  leaves  which  remain  are  few 
in  number,  and  to  remember,  faintly  at  first,  and  then 
more  clearly,  that  upon  the  earlier  pages  of  that  book 
was  written  a  story  of  happy  innocence,  which  he  would 


266  HYPERION. 

fain  read  over  again.  Then  come  listless  irresolution, 
and  the  inevitable  inaction  of  despair  ;  or  else  the  firm 
resolve  to  record  upon  the  leaves  that  still  remain  a 
more  noble  history  than  the  child's  story  with  which 
the  book  began." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE     LAST     PANG. 

"  TpAREWELL  to  thee,  Saint  Gilgen  ! "  said  Plem* 
J-  ming,  as  he  turned  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  to 
take  his  last  look  at  the  lake  and  the  village  below,  and 
felt  that  this  was  one  of  the  few  spots  on  the  wide  earth 
to  which  he  could  say  farewell  with  regret.  "  Thy  ma 
jestic  hills  have  impressed  themselves  upon  my  soul,  as  a 
seal  upon  wax.  The  quiet  beauty  of  thy  lake  shall  be  to 
me  forever  an  image  of  peace  and  purity  and  stillness, 
and  that  inscription  in  thy  little  churchyard  a  sentence 
of  wisdom  for  my  after  life." 

Before  the  setting  of  the  same  sun  which  then  shone 
on  that  fair  landscape,  he  was  far  on  his  way  towards 
Munich.  He  had  left  behind  him  the  mountains  of  the 
Tyrol ;  and  beheld  them  for  the  last  time  in  the  soft 
evening  twilight,  their  bases  green  with  forest-trees,  and 
here  and  there  a  sharp  rocky  spire,  and  a  rounded  summit 
capped  with  snow.  There  they  lay,  their  backs  like  the 
backs  of  camels  ;  a  mighty  caravan,  reposing  at  evening 
in  its  march  across  the  desert. 

From  Munich  he  passed  through  Augsburg  and  Ulm, 
on  his  way  to  Stuttgard.  At  the  entrances  of  towns  and 
villages,  he  saw  large  crucifixes,  ;  and  on  the  fronts  of 
many  houses,  coarse  paintings  and  images  of  saints.  In 
Gunzburg  three  priests  in  black  were  slowly  passing 
down  the  street,  and  women  fell  on  their  knees  to  receive 

267 


268  HYPERION, 

a  blessing.  There  were  many  beggars,  too,  in  the  streets  •; 
and  an  old  man  who  was  making  hay  in  a  field  by  the 
road-side,  when  he  saw  the  carriage  approaching,  threw 
down  his  rake,  and  came  tumbling  over  the  ditch,  with 
his  hat  held  out  in  both  hands,  uttering  the  most  dis 
mal  wail.  The  next  day,  the  bright  yellow  jackets  of  the 
postilions,  and  the  two  great  tassels  of  their  bugle-horns, 
dangling  down  their  backs,  like  cauliflowers,  told  him 
he  was  -in  Wiirtemburg ;  and,  late  in  the  evening,  he 
stopped  at  a  hotel  in  Stuttgard,  and  from  his  chamber- 
window  saw,  in  the  bright  moonlight,  the  old  Gothic 
cathedral,  with  its  narrow,  lancet  windows  and  jutting 
buttresses,  right  in  front  of  him.  Erelong  he  had  for 
gotten  all  his  cares  and  sorrows  in  sleep,  and  with  them 
his  hopes,  and  wishes,  and  good  resolves. 

He  was  still  sitting  at  breakfast  in  his  chamber,  the 
next  morning,  when  the  great  bell  of  the  cathedral  oppo 
site  began  to  ring,  and  reminded  him  that  it  was  Sunday. 
Erelong  the  organ  answered  from  within,  and  from  its 
golden  lips  breathed  forth  a  psalm.  The  congregation 
began  to  assemble,  and  Flemming  went  up  with  them  to 
the  house  of  the  Lord.  In  the  body  of  the  church  he 
found  the  pews  all  filled  or  locked  ;  they  seemed  to  be 
long  to  families.  He  went  up  into  the  gallery,  and  looked 
over  the  psalm-book  of  a  peasant,  while  the  congregation 
sang  the  sublime  old  hymn  of  Martin  Luther,— 

"  Our  God,  he  is  a  tower  of  strength, 
A  trusty  shield  and  weapon." 

During  the  singing,  a  fat  clergyman,  clad  in  black,  with 
a  surplice  thrown  loosely  about  him,  came  pacing  along 
one  of  the  aisles,  from  beneath  the  organ-loft,  and  as- 


A  ROMANCE.  269 

cended  the  pulpit.  After  the  hymn,  he  read  a  portion 
of  Scripture,  and  then  said  : — 

"Let  us  unite  in  silent  prayer." 

And  turning  round,  he  knelt  in  the  pulpit,  while  the 
congregation  remained  standing.  For  a  while  there  was 
a  breathless  silence  in  the  church,  which  to  Flemming 
was  more  solemnly  impressive  than  any  audible  prayer. 
The  clergyman  then  arose,  and  began  his  sermon.  His 
theme  was  the  Reformation  ;  and  he  attempted  to  prove 
how  much  easier  it  was  to  enter  the  kingdom  of  Heaven 
througli  the  gateways  of  the  Reformed  Evangelical  Ger 
man  Church,  than  by  the  aisles  and  penitential  staircases 
of  Saint  Peter's.  He  then  gave  a  history  of  the  Refor 
mation  ;  and  when  Flemming  thought  he  was  near  the 
end,  he  heard  him  say  that  he  should  divide  his  discourse 
into  four  heads.  This  reminded  him  of  the  sturdy  old 
Puritan,  Cotton  Mather,  who,  after  preaching  an  hour, 
would  coolly  turn  the  hour-glass  on  the  pulpit,  and  say  : 
"Now,  my  beloved  hearers,  let  us  take  another  glass." 
He  stole  out  into  the  silent,  deserted  street,  and  went  to 
visit  the  veteran  sculptor,  Dannecker.  He  found  him 
sitting  alone,  with  his  psalm-book,  and  the  reminiscences 
of  a  life  of  eighty  years.  As  Flemming  entered,  he  arose 
from  the  sofa,  and  tottered  towards  him  ;  a  venerable  old 
man  of  low  stature,  dressed  in  a  loose  white  jacket,  with 
a  face  like  Franklin's,  his  white  hair  flowing  over  his 
shoulders,  and  a  pale  blue  eye. 

"  So  you  are  from  America,"  said  he.  "  But  you  have 
a  German  name.  Paul  Flemming  was  one  of  our  old 
poets.  I  have  never  been  in  America,  and  never  shall  go 
there.  I  am  now  too  old.  I  have  been  in  Paris  and  in 
Rome.  But  that  was  long  ago.  I  am  now  eight-and- 
seventy  years  old." 


270  HYPERION, 

Here  he  took  Flemming  by  the  hand,  and  made  him 
sit  down  by  his  side,  on  the  sofa.  And  Flemming  felt  a 
mysterious  awe  creep  over  him,  on  touching  the  hand  of 
the  good  old  man,  who  sat  so  serenely  amid  the  gathering 
shade  of  years,  and  listened  to  life's  curfew-bell,  telling, 
with  eight-and-seventy  solemn  strokes,  that  the  hour  had 
come  when  the  fires  of  all  earthly  passion  must  be  quenched 
within,  and  man  must  prepare  to  lie  down  and  rest  till 
the  morning. 

"You  see,"  he  continued,  in  a  melancholy  tone,  "my 
hands  are  cold  ;  colder  than  yours.  They  were  warmer 
once.  I  am  now  an  old  man." 

"Yet  these  are  the  hands,"  answered  Flemming, 
"  that  sculptured  the  beautiful  Ariadne  and  the  Panther. 
The  soul  never  grows  old." 

"  Nor  does  Nature,"  said  the  old  man,  pleased  with 
this  allusion  to  his  great  work,  and  pointing  to  the  green 
trees  before  his  window.  "  This  pleasure  I  have  left  to 
me.  My  sight  is  still  good.  I  can  even  distinguish  ob 
jects  on  the  side  of  yonder  mountain.  My  hearing  is 
also  unimpaired.  For  all  which  I  thank  God." 

Then,  directing  Flemming's  attention  to  a  fine  engrav 
ing,  which  hung  on  the  opposite  wall  of  the  room,  he 
continued: — 

"  That  is  an  engraving  of  Canova's  Religion.  I  love 
to  sit  here  and  look  at  it,  for  hours  together.  It  is  beau 
tiful.  He  made  the  statue  for  his  native  town,  where 
they  had  no  church  until  he  built  them  one.  He  placed 
the  statue  in  it.  This  engraving  he  sent  me  as  a  present. 
Ah,  he  was  a  dear,  good  man.  The  name  of  his  native 
town  1  have  forgotten.  My  memory  fails  me.  I  cannot 
remember  names." 

Fearful  that  he  had  disturbed  the  old  man  in  his  morn- 


A  ROMANCE.  271 

ing  devotions,  Flemming  did  not  remain  long,  but  took 
his  leave  with  regret.  There  was  something  impressive 
in  the  scene  he  had  witnessed  ; — this  beautiful  old  age  of 
the  artist;  sitting  by  the  open  window,  in  the  bright 
summer  morning, — the  labor  of  life  accomplished,  the 
horizon  reached,  where  heaven  and  earth  meet, — thinking 
it  was  angel's  music,  when  he  heard  the  church-bells 
ring ;  himself  too  old  to  go.  As  he  walked  back  to  his 
chamber,  he  thought  within  himself  whether  he  likewise 
might  not  accomplish  something  which  should  live  after 
him, — might  not  bring  something  permanent  out  of  this 
fast-fleeting  life  of  man,  and  then  sit  down,  like  the  art 
ist,  in  serene  old  age,  and  fold  his  hands  in  silence.  He 
wondered  how  a  man  felt  when  he  grew  so  old  that  he 
could  no  longer  go  to  church,  but  must  sit  at  home  and 
read  the  Bible  in  large  print.  His  heart  was  full  of  in 
definite  longings,  mingled  with  regrets ;  longings  to  ac 
complish  something  worthy  -of  life ;  regret  that  as  yet  he 
had  accomplished  nothing,  but  had  felt  and  dreamed 
only.  Thus  the  warm  days  in  spring  bring  forth  passion 
flowers  and  forget-me-nots.  It  is  only  after  midsummer, 
when  the  days  grow  shorter  and  hotter,  that  fruit  begins 
to  appear.  Then  the  heat  of  the  day  brings  forward  the 
harvest,  and  after  the  harvest  the  leaves  fall,  and  there  is 
a  gray  frost.  Much  meditating  upon  these  things,  Paul 
Flemming  reached  his  hotel.  At  that  moment  a  person 
clad  in  green  came  down  the  church  steps,  and  crossed 
the  street.  It  was  the  German  student  of  Interlachen. 
Flemming  started,  as  if  a  green  snake  had  suddenly 
crossed  his  path.  He  took  refuge  in  his  chamber. 

That  night,  as  he  was  sitting  alone,  having  made  his 
preparations  to  depart  the  following  morning,  his  atten 
tion  was  arrested  by  the  sound  of  a  female  voice  in  the 


272  HYPERION, 

next  room.  A  thin  partition,  with  a  door,  separated  it 
from  his  own.  He  had  not  before  observed  that  the  room 
was  occupied.  But,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  the 
tones  of  that  voice  struck  his  ear.  He  listened.  It  was 
a  lady,  reading  the  prayers  of  the  English  Church.  The 
tones  were  familiar,  and  awakened  at  once  a  thousand 
painfully  sweet  recollections.  It  was  the  voice  of  Mary 
Ashburton  !  His  heart  could  not  be  deceived ;  and  all 
its  wounds  began  to  bleed  afresh,  like  those  of  a  murdered 
man  when  the  murderer  approaches.  His  first  impulse  was 
of  affection  only,  boundless,  irrepressible,  delirious,  as  of 
old  in  the  green  valley  of  Interlachen.  He  waited  for  the 
voice  to  cease,  that  he  might  go  to  her,  and  behold  her 
face  once  more.  And  then  his  pride  rose  up  within  him, 
and  rebuked  this  weakness.  He  remembered  his  firm  re 
solve,  and  blushed  to  find  himself  so  feeble.  And  the  voice 
ceased,  and  yet  he  did  not  go.  Pride  had  so  far  gained 
the  mastery  over  affection.  He  lay  down  upon  his  bed, 
like  a  child  as  he  was.  All  about  him  was  silence,  and 
the  silence  was  holy,  for  she  was  near ;  so  near,  that  he 
could  almost  hear  the  beating  of  her  heart.  He  knew 
now  for  the  first  time  how  weak  he  was,  and  how  strong 
was  his  passion  for  that  woman.  His  heart  was  like  the 
altar  of  the  Israelites  of  old  ;  and,  though  drenched  with 
tears,  as  with  rain,  it  was  kindled  at  once  by  the  holy  fire 
from  heaven  ! 

Towards  morning  he  fell  asleep,  exhausted  with  the 
strong  excitement ;  and,  in  that  hour,  when,  sleep  being 
"nigh  unto  the  soul,"  visions  are  deemed  prophetic,  he 
dreamed.  0  blessed  vision  of  the  morning,  stay !  thou 
wast  so  fair  !  He  stood  again  on  the  green  sunny  meadow, 
beneath  the  ruined  towers  ;  and  she  was  by  his  side,  with 
her  pale,  speaking  countenance  and  holy  eyes  j  and  he 


A  ROMANCE.  273 

kissed  her  fair  forehead ;  and  she  turned  her  face  towards 
him,  beaming  with  affection,  and  said,  "  I  confess  it  now ; 
you  are  the  Magician  ! "  and  pressed  him  in  a  meek  em 
brace,  that  he  "  might  rather  feel  than  see  the  swelling 
of  her  heart."  And  then  she  faded  away  from  his  arms, 
and  her  face  became  transfigured,  and  her  voice  like  the 
voice  of  an  angel  in  heaven ; — and  he  awoke,  and  was 
alone  ! 

It  was  broad  daylight ;  and  he  heard  the  postilion  and 
the  stamping  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  pavement  at  the 
door.  At  the  same  moment  the  servant  came  in,  with 
coffee,  and  told  him  all  was  ready.  He  did  not  dare  to 
stay.  But,  throwing  himself  into  the  carriage,  he  cast 
one  look  towards  the  window  of  the  Dark  Ladie,  and  a 
moment  afterwards  had  left  her  for  ever  !  He  had  drunk 
the  last  drop  of  the  bitter  cup,  and  now  laid  the  golden 
goblet  gently  down,  knowing  that  he  should  behold  it  no 
more  ! 

No  more !     0  how  majestically  mournful   are  those 
words  !    They  sound  like  the  roar  of  the  wind  through  a 
forest  of  pines ! 
IS 


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